


Let My Hands Do the Soothing

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Avengers Vol. 3 (1998), Caretaking, Fugitives, Getting Together, Hair Dyeing, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Scars, Sharing a Bed, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 07:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Steve's always been determined to do the right thing, and when Tony is in more trouble than ever, he doesn't hesitate. Severely wounded by multiple attempts on his life, framed for an attack he never committed, Tony is on the run from the government, ready to hunt down the villain responsible and make him pay. But he doesn't have to do it alone. Steve is there for him. But keeping Tony in one piece is harder than Steve thought it would be, and caring for Tony is bringing up feelings that are difficult to keep buried...





	Let My Hands Do the Soothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/gifts).



> Happy birthday, phoenixmetaphor! It has been a very great pleasure to know you and to work with you on all these BBs and RBBs! I hope this is the Manhunt h/c fic of your heart! I put a lot of h/c in it!
> 
> This is a canon-divergent AU of the Iron Man arc Manhunt (IM v3 #65-69). For people unfamiliar with this arc, you should know that if you like Tony suffering, Manhunt is an arc that will make you very happy. Tony is framed for a terrorist attack, survives three separate murder attempts, and goes on the run from the FBI in an attempt to track down the people framing him. This arc features Tony doing things like bleeding heavily (from said murder attempts), thereby passing out in his suit and flying into a building. He makes terrible medical decisions to prioritize his short-term continued existence. He gets into fights that he is woefully unprepared for. It's pretty great. You should read it! (And of course he shaves and dyes his hair blond! That's what he does when he's on the run!)
> 
> Manhunt is, however, an arc that does not have any Steve in it whatsoever. So what I have attempted to write is an AU of Manhunt with 100% more Captain America content. Specifically, Steve/Tony content. I have kept the broad strokes of the plot and jettisoned basically everything else, and that includes canonical romantic relationships. So, yeah, Rumiko isn't in this story. Just assume that they broke up before this story started. (She essentially dumps him during this arc in canon, anyway.)
> 
> Please note that, at this point in time, the general public does in fact know both Steve and Tony's secret identities -- but it's a pretty new development for both of them.
> 
> Thanks to BlossomsintheMist for beta and to Lysimache for providing important information on hair dye. Some dialogue has also been borrowed from canon.
> 
> Anyway, have some hurt/comfort!

Steve has to hear about it from the TV news.

He's sitting on the couch at the mansion, flipping channels when suddenly all the broadcast networks have the same picture: a pile of rubble that used to be a building, bricks and splintered wood scattered about, huge steel I-beams tossed like toys. 

Shock, disbelief, horror -- all of this runs through him, the way it would for anyone watching this. And then, just as quickly, a set of feelings peculiar to the Avengers courses through him. The emotional impact, raw and harsh, drains away, and he's on his feet, already making a plan. In his mind he can see how he'd move that fallen girder, how he'd start the search for survivors. He's an Avenger, and when disaster strikes, he runs toward it. He's ready to help.

He needs to suit up. He glances at the door. It won't take him long to get ready, but he does need a location to point a Quinjet at, first.

Reflexively, his identicard is in his hand, and he's waiting for the news to say more. He needs to see what it is, where it is. God, this is a wreck. They need to leave now.

It's the middle of the afternoon, so most of the team isn't around; it's just Steve here watching the news. A few taps on the identicard and the team can be here. Tony, Carol, Jan, Hank, Wanda, Jen -- longtime Avengers, all of them. They can deal with this. Wherever it is, they can go there. They can help.

"The Chinese embassy in Washington DC has been bombed," the voiceover is reporting. "Witnesses say there was a bright light, and then the building collapsed."

The camera zooms in, and then Steve can see it, a familiar glint of red and gold. Tony's there, lifting an I-beam up. Well, at least they've got someone on scene. Steve breathes out hard. Tony's handling it. Tony knows what he's doing. Tony's going to call them in, surely, as soon as he has a spare moment.

Steve's identicard beeps, and he turns it over, revealing... Nick Fury.

"You're seeing this, right, Cap?" Nick asks. His voice through the card is tinny but grim.

Steve nods. "I'm seeing it. We can have Avengers on the ground in DC in twenty minutes, if you want our help--"

"Actually," Nick says, his voice going sharp, "I want you out of it."

"What?"

How the hell can Nick say that? How can he be looking at this destruction and ask them to do nothing?

"I want you out of it," Nick repeats. "All the Avengers. But especially Stark. We're tracing the bomb, the designs, and it doesn't look good, Cap."

On screen, Tony emerges from the debris, holding a child in his arms.

"What do you mean," Steve asks, "when you say it doesn't look good?"

There's a pause. "You really need me to spell it out for you?"

Tension curls in his stomach. He knows what that means. He knows that that means the bomb has Tony's name on it.

Given that Tony used to make bombs, it's not impossible, of course -- but Steve's never heard of Tony making something like this. Which means that Tony might have designed it, once upon a time, but it probably never got out of the planning stages. But someone clearly decided to continue his work.

Tony's being framed.

It's not like this hasn't happened to Tony before. Steve knows -- God, does he ever -- that Tony's technology being stolen and misused is one of his worst nightmares for a reason. And now he's living it, again. And there's nothing Steve can do about it.

And it looks like Nick's more than willing to let Tony take the fall.

There's no villain he can fight. There's just Tony, who is -- oh God -- standing in DC hauling bodies out of the rubble made by one of his own bombs, probably wondering even now where all the rest of the team is, why he's doing this alone. He shouldn't be. They should be there helping. And, okay, maybe Nick's right and it looks bad if the Avengers officially come down there when they know it's one of Tony's bombs -- but, Jesus, right now, Tony doesn't even know, does he? How would he know the bomb had been his design?

It would be just like Nick to use that against him. He'd be happy enough to use Tony to rescue the civilians and then turn around and clap him in irons. Oh, Nick probably wouldn't be so brazen as to do it on live television, so Tony's probably safe for a bit. But there are plenty of good reasons not to trust SHIELD, and Steve knows Tony knows that, probably better than he himself does. But that doesn't make any of this okay.

He watches Tony lift another beam and dart back into the rubble, and his throat tightens.

"So," Steve says, and he can practically taste the acid in the back of his mouth, "are you going to tell Tony someone stole his schematics now, or are you going to let him figure it out?"

Nick makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh. "I don't have to, Cap. He already knows."

On screen, Tony hands another child to the closest of the EMTs and turns back, heading into the wreckage again. He's a hero. This is what he does. He helps people. And yet someone was willing to kill hundreds of people in order to hurt him. He doesn't deserve this. No one does. God, there's so much death. It's all so senseless.

This shouldn't be happening, Steve thinks, and he shuts his eyes.

* * *

Knowing that there's a disaster unfolding, that Tony is being blamed for it, and that he's powerless to do anything about it doesn't put Steve in the best of moods. He can't go to Washington to help the survivors, and he can't do anything to clear Tony's name. By the time Nick disconnects the call, he's seething with frustration.

He's never been good at idleness, at forced inactivity, and it needles at him even more to know that there are things he could do but isn't permitted to.

Even patrolling won't help; he needs to work all the energy out of him. It's not fair, and right now it makes him want to punch something.

If he goes to the gym in a mood like this he knows he's going to break the brand-new heavy bag, but he grits his teeth and heads downstairs anyway.

He finds, to his surprise, that he's not the only one there. Carol is heading up the stairs at a fast clip, craning her neck around like she's looking for something or someone.

When she sees him she grimaces, and he knows she's heard the news.

"There you are! I just got in," she says. Her face is tight, tense. "I was about to go to DC, but I checked my card and it looked like SHIELD has the Avengers down as banned from this situation. What even gives them the right? Is this more of Gyrich's bullshit?" She holds her identicard out indignantly, and Steve can see the warning flag on it from here. "What the hell's going on?"

"Fury doesn't want us there," Steve says, grimly. "He asked us to stay home. It was one of Tony's bombs. The design, anyway."

Carol's face pales. And it's then that Steve knows that Carol is one of Tony's real friends, because she doesn't say _why would he do that_? or even _do you think he did it?_ It doesn't even occur to her. She just skips straight to: "Do we know who framed him?"

It's a terrible situation, and Steve's still sick inside thinking about how he can't do anything about the civilians who are still trapped in there -- but it's good to know that there's someone else in the whole damned world who won't blame Tony for something he didn't do.

"Nothing yet," Steve says. He clenches and unclenches his fist. "And I just-- I can't do _anything_ , Carol--"

She reaches out and rests a gloved hand on his shoulder. "It's going to be okay," she says, solemnly. "Someone is going to help at the embassy, even if it isn't us. And Tony's strong. He's going to be okay too."

She doesn't say that someone's going to help Tony.

God, he wishes he could help Tony.

Steve swallows hard. "Okay. Got it."

Carol squeezes his shoulder, and then she lets her hand drop. "So," she says. "If we can't go to Washington, do you want to spar? You can throw me around the gym a bit."

Carol's not one of Steve's usual sparring partners. He's helped Carol with her form, but for his own training, he doesn't usually enter the ring with any of the team's actual heavy-hitters. He generally prefers to fight people who can't accidentally throw him through a wall. And there's the fact that their styles aren't a great match for sparring, because most of the time she's in the air and he can't easily ground a flyer without risking actually hurting them.

Still, it would be a hell of a workout. And it's not like he can do anything else right now.

"How am I going to throw you around if you're ten feet up every time I let go of you?" Steve returns, but he's already made up his mind.

Carol raises her eyebrows. "I thought you were the tactical genius, Cap. You can figure it out."

* * *

As it turns out, Carol throws him _against the ceiling_. It's good exercise, for sure.

But not even a few rounds in the ring with Carol can fix the real problem here.

When he's just out of the showers, towel still slung around his neck, he stops in the hallway outside the monitor room and stares at the network news in horror.

The news has gotten worse.

Oh, it's not anything new. They're reporting what Fury told him: the bomb designs are Tony's. But the fact that they're reporting on it at all -- well, that's a problem. Steve knows a fair bit about SHIELD's operational security, after all the time he's spent working with them, and he's positive that telling the press all the sordid details of the investigation only makes their job harder.

It means they've got a leak.

And that means someone really, really has it out for Tony. Someone somewhere is dropping all this information to the press because they want to make Tony look bad. It's not that the bomb design they used randomly happened to be something Tony once made. The attackers must have picked the design on purpose, and then someone let the fact slip specifically to destroy the public's opinion of Tony.

He knows he shouldn't keep looking at the news, but he has to know. He has to know what they think. And maybe they'll show Tony. He can see how Tony's taking it. It's the next best thing to being able to actually talk to him.

Upset but trying to brace himself for it, Steve flips through channels. Shares of Stark Enterprises are dropping. The talking heads are debating Tony's innocence, coming down mostly on the side of guilt. 

And then, on the next channel, there's the familiar shape of Stark Tower. There's a shot of the crowd of reporters outside the doors, crowding around a car that Steve knows is one of Tony's. He sees, through the clamoring crowd, Tony with his head down, defeated, trying to dodge the questions, just trying to get home.

He can see only the barest glimpses of Tony's face as Tony turns, trying to avoid the reporters shouting at him from every direction, trying to get inside to safety. He doesn't know how Tony can do this every day, how he can live like this, every action under a microscope even in his personal life. The public might know that Steve is Captain America now, but he can still go for a run in Central Park if he wants. But every day of Tony's life is like this, with no respite, and he can't imagine how Tony does it.

It's a funny thought, because then he realizes that he knows how Tony does it: he hurts. He just hurts, and he does it anyway. He doesn't cushion any of it with alcohol anymore, either. He just stands up, is knocked back down, and gets up and does it again. It's the same way he does everything else in his life.

Something twists and aches in Steve's chest. He hates to think of Tony hurting.

He knows that the first time this happened, a long, long time ago, with the Guardsmen, he wasn't on Tony's side. He didn't understand Tony's concerns about the misuse of his technology. But he wants to be better now. He wants to do right by Tony. He doesn't just want to stand there and watch Tony suffer. He knows that Tony's famous, that Tony's rich, and that for some reason that makes the world feel entitled to heap abuse on him from all sides, like the money means he can't feel anything else. God, if they knew him they'd realize how wrong they all are. Tony feels _everything_.

Tony disappears from view, and before Steve can really think about it, he's got his phone in hand, dialing Tony's cell number from memory.

It goes to voicemail. He didn't really think Tony would pick up.

He clears his throat. "Hi, Tony," he says. "It's Steve. I just wanted to say that, well, I saw all the news coverage, and if there's anything I can do for you, anything at all, or if you just want to talk -- call me, okay? I've got your back. You know the number."

He hangs up.

He wonders sometimes if Tony's ever going to hear it in his voice. The longing. The caring that goes far, far beyond simple concern, even with the closeness one might expect from two people who have been friends for a decade. He wants to hold Tony tight and never, ever let him go. He wants so many things he can't have.

It doesn't matter. He knows he loves Tony, and that's enough for him. Tony is his friend. Tony is part of his life, and he's grateful every day to Tony for letting him in. He can't imagine how his life would have gone if Tony hadn't opened his home to him, the day the team found him. Tony did, and Tony has, and that's enough. The fact that Steve occasionally daydreams about pulling Tony close and kissing him breathless doesn't mean anything.

At any rate, he already knows that Tony's not even going to return his call. It's not because Tony doesn't care -- even if he doesn't exactly care in the precise way that Steve does, Steve knows he cares -- but it's because, in the end, Tony always believes he needs to suffer alone. He believes -- strange, for an atheist -- in his own martyrdom. He believes he needs to carry his own burden, even with his friends surrounding him and holding out their hands. He's not going to let Steve help unless Steve gets down on his knees and begs -- and maybe not even then.

With a sigh, Steve mutes the television and grabs the nearest stack of reports.

It's an hour later when he looks up, rubs his eyes... and freezes.

STARK IN STABLE CONDITION AFTER SHOOTING, the news ticker at the bottom of the screen says, and Steve forgets how to breathe.

He knocks the papers on the floor as he fumbles for the remote. He hits the wrong button three times before managing to put the sound back on.

The reporter is standing outside a hospital -- it looks like Founders' Hospital -- and behind her, a crowd is gathering, chanting words too distorted to make out, holding signs that mostly seem to be blaming Tony for the attack on the embassy. Steve can't make any of it out. He can barely focus.

God, oh God, Tony.

"--Stark and one of his employees were attacked this evening by unknown assailants," the reporter says, serenely, and Steve wonders how the hell anyone can stay this calm. "The mood of the crowd, as you see, is none too friendly--"

Steve mutes the TV again and grabs his shield. He's always been on Tony's visitors' list.

* * *

It turns out it's not visiting hours, and even being Captain America doesn't get Steve past the nurses.

"You come back later," the nurse says, sternly, intoning the words with a thick Slavic accent, and she rolls up the sleeves of her scrubs and crosses her huge arms like she actually intends to fight him about it. Steve eyes her biceps warily and thinks maybe she could give even him a run for his money.

Behind her, Steve sees what must be Tony's door, with two uniformed officers outside, and he breathes out and lets the tension uncurl, just a little. Tony's being guarded, he tells himself. It's going to be all right. Even if he can't be there at Tony's side, Tony's going to be okay. They're taking care of him; Tony's getting the best care anyone can. He's protected and he's healing and there is nowhere better or safer he could possibly be than where he is right now. Steve repeats it to himself like he's a child saying his prayers before bed, like saying it will make it truer and truer, will build a shield around Tony. A shield, a wall, a fortress.

If Tony had been hurt on a mission, the Avengers would have him now, back at the mansion. But the world knows, these days, that Tony's Iron Man, and somehow that means that the Avengers have even less claim on him.

If Tony had been hurt on a mission, he probably wouldn't have gotten himself shot while unarmored, so it kind of balances out.

"All right," he tells her. "Thank you."

He turns away, and that's when he spies a familiar face at the other end of the waiting area; Pepper Potts is curled up into a chair, her freckled face pale and streaked with tears. She's staring at nothing, like a shell-shocked soldier back from the front, and Steve doesn't think she even sees him.

Steve remembers the news: Tony and an employee were both attacked. And since Happy's not out here with Pepper, that means Happy's in there in a hospital bed. Jesus.

"Pepper," he says, heading over to her, and Pepper jerks, startled, eyes gone wide, like she's waking up from one nightmare into another.

She blinks at him. "You heard, huh?"

He perches awkwardly on the seat next to her; his body feels too huge, somehow like a threat. "Not much," he says, and he shoves the cowl back, runs his hands through his hair. The world knows who he is now. They know his name just like they know Tony's, but even if they didn't, right now he wouldn't care. He has bigger problems. "The news just said that Tony and an employee had been shot -- that was Happy, right?"

Tears well up in her eyes as she nods again, and Steve covers her hand with his own.

"Happy was out drinking," she says, and there's pain in her voice now, something dark and wretched, "and Tony went to the bar to get him."

Something twists in Steve's chest because, God, Tony in a situation where he needed to go to a bar is already bad enough, especially given the day Tony's already had. He knows that Tony must have volunteered to go get Happy, because that's the kind of guy Tony is. Always there for his friends. He remembers the time Tony came and found him in that dive bar to apologize about the Guardsmen and the Supreme Intelligence, and to this day Steve is still guilty that Tony made himself come to a bar for his sake.

"I don't-- I don't know what happened," she says, "but they were attacked outside the bar. There were men with guns. Tony had the armor, and he suited up, but he wasn't fast enough, and Happy--"

She inhales, a torn and ragged sound, and then she's crying again.

He's not dead, Steve tells himself. Neither of them are dead. "How is he? How are they?"

"Happy's in a coma," Pepper says, shakily. "Tony flew Happy here himself, and then he passed out. I had to use the overrides to get him out of the suit so they could treat him." She takes another breath. "Except for how Happy's not waking up, he's actually better off than Tony is. They'd have killed Tony if he hadn't gotten into the armor when he did. They shot him three times. Once in the chest."

Steve's been fighting since 1940, and he knows -- Christ, he knows -- that could so easily be a death sentence. His mind fills in the memories, perfect and serum-preserved, GIs barely older than kids, staggering forward in the mud and the darkness, gut-shot, their hands folded over the wounds that would kill them, blood seeping between their fingers.

It's all too easy to put Tony's face on one of those men.

He chokes on all the words he can't say. The news didn't say _critical condition_. The news said _stable_. They've fought Kang and Ultron together. They've saved the world. A guy with a gun in a back alley can't be what finally takes Tony out. This can't be how Tony dies.

"Is he--" Steve tries to ask, and the rest of the sentence isn't there.

Pepper looks at him. "He's going to be all right, Steve," she says, very softly, and Steve wonders wildly if she knows how he feels, if she knows when Tony doesn't. "His artificial heart, they told me it saved him." She gestures vaguely at her sternum. "It put out some kind of tendril that sealed the wound. I don't know."

And here Steve had thought that the time Tony's armor was going to kill him would never have an upside.

"Oh." He exhales. "Oh. Okay. Good." He tries to smile at her. "I'll-- we're all-- I'm glad to hear that. I'll keep Happy in my thoughts, too."

Pepper gives him a wan smile in return. "That's kind of you. You should go home, Steve. Try to get some sleep. I'm sure they'll let us see Tony in the morning."

Tony's probably asleep, he tells himself. He can wait.

He can come back tomorrow. Visiting hours probably start at ten. He can bring Tony flowers, maybe. Friends bring friends flowers.

It's going to be okay.

* * *

By the time Steve gets home, the news has more leaked information: Tony apparently sold the weapons that had been used against the Chinese embassy to North Korea. Not that Tony would have, even if he'd made them. It's all faked. Steve knows it. But the crowds still angrily chanting his name outside the hospital don't seem to have any difficulty believing the lie.

A protestor in the crowd is holding a sign that reads DIE STARK DIE, with a crude drawing of Iron Man's helmet with dollar signs in place of the eyes, and Steve grits his teeth. He turns the TV off before he can throw the remote at it.

Tony's going to get through this, he tells himself.

Tony always gets better.

* * *

The next morning, Steve is finishing the last of his omelette and counting the minutes until he can swing by the hospital and check on Tony. Someone's left the little TV in the kitchen on, the morning news babbling away to itself, and Steve glances up and stops dead and, oh, God, that's the hospital again, that's the hospital where Tony is--

TWO DEAD IN FURTHER ATTEMPT ON STARK'S LIFE, the bottom of the screen says, and God, Steve was wrong, Tony wasn't safe at all, Tony isn't safe--

He remembers the guards sitting outside Tony's door. They hadn't been enough. They hadn't stopped this. People had died. Maybe it had been the two of them.

There has to be something Steve can do. If Tony is stable enough for transport, the Avengers can take him in. Tony's sure not safe where he is, and this way if he's at the mansion whoever is after him will have to take down Steve first to get to him. Steve's on his feet, adrenaline flowing through his veins, his body bracing for a fight--

His cell phone rings.

"It's Pepper," Pepper says, before Steve can so much as say hello. "Now, before you say anything, I want to tell you that Tony is okay."

"I'm watching the news," Steve rasps. He's glad he's alone in the kitchen. His eyes are hot.

Pepper sighs, a sympathetic sound, and there's a pause like she's steeling herself to get through this. "Okay, so what happened was that one of the nurses tried to kill Tony this morning. She poisoned the guards. Tried to poison him, and when that didn't work, she attacked him. He probably shouldn't have been in a fistfight in his condition, but he's fine. SHIELD and the FBI have the nurse in custody. Tony's asked to be put in SHIELD protective custody as well. They're moving him out of the hospital now. But he's all right. I-- I just thought that you'd want to know."

He thinks of the nurse who hadn't let him see Tony. Had she been the one trying to kill him?

Tony should have been safe. Steve should have done something, and he didn't.

"Thanks," he says.

He hangs up. The phone dangles uselessly from his hand.

He turns off the TV. He'll go for a run, he thinks. That always clears his head.

When he opens the front door, there are reporters swarming outside the gate.

"Captain!" a man with a microphone shouts. There's a cameraman behind him. "What is the official Avengers position on Tony Stark selling weapons to--"

Steve shuts the door.

He puts his back against the door and slides all the way down, and that's where Jan finds him, half an hour later.

"You're going to want to turn on the news," Jan says, and Steve sighs and stands up.

Tony's not dead, he tells himself. Someone would have told him.

It's not much of a consolation.

* * *

Steve retreats to his room to follow the saga of Tony's life falling apart on the morning news. He can't face being around the rest of the team right now, not when there's nothing they can do for Tony. Tony's welfare is in someone else's hands right now. SHIELD has Tony.

Except, he discovers, SHIELD doesn't have Tony. The detail that had been meant to protect him was ambushed.

Steve watches the shaky amateur camera footage of someone in a helicopter _firing missiles_ at a van marked with a SHIELD logo. Tony emerges from the wrecked van. He's suited up, thank God, but he's flying unsteadily as he takes multiple shots head-on, blocking the missiles with his body so no civilians are hurt.

Tony was shot in the chest yesterday. He can't take hits like that.

He's got to be okay. He has to.

He watches as Tony flies away. He wishes Tony would come here, to the mansion. He knows Tony's not going to come here. Technically, this is Tony escaping custody. The mansion is probably the first place they'd look.

"A warrant has been issued for Tony Stark's arrest," the newscaster says, very calmly. Like this is any old piece of information to her.

Steve turns the TV off and shuts his eyes. There's no way it can get worse from here. This has to be as bad as it gets. This is pretty terrible.

He grabs his identicard and tries to ping Iron Man's location. Tony has turned all the tracking off. Of course he has.

There's nothing he can do except wait. He picks up his paperwork again, tries to focus. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty. He stops counting. All he can think of is Tony, on the run, bleeding, hurting, suffering, and there's nothing Steve can do. He doesn't even know where Tony is.

He puts the paperwork aside. He's pacing his room now. He can't even leave the mansion, what with the mob of reporters. Tony could be anywhere, could be dying, could already be dead.

His phone rings. The caller ID is blank.

When Steve answers, all he hears down the line is breathing. Heavy, raspy breathing. A low groan -- a man's voice. He wonders if it's some prank caller, dialing random numbers.

"Hello?" Steve ventures.

There's nothing except more breathing, harsher this time, even heavier. The man moans. If this is some creep getting his jollies from calling up random strangers, one hand down his pants -- well, Steve is definitely not in the mood for that.

Thumb hovering over the end-call button, he's about to hang up when the man on the other end of the line finally speaks.

"Steve?" Tony rasps. His voice is a dry croak. "Tell me that's you, Steve. Please."

Oh, God.

"Tony!" Steve says, and he's cradling the phone in his hands like it's a lifeline. He's shaking. "Tony, are you all right? Where are you? Talk to me."

But Tony doesn't answer his questions. "When you said," he begins, and then he stops, out of breath. He groans. He's hurting, Steve realizes. He's in too much pain to talk. God, _Tony_. "When you asked if there was anything you could do, did you-- did you really mean that, when you said _anything_?"

"Of course," Steve says, instantly, desperately. "Anything you need, Tony. Name it. Just tell me where you are and I'll be there."

He's reaching out, stretching forth his hand, like Tony's right here, like he can touch him.

Tony makes a noise that might be a laugh or a grunt of pain. "You sure about that? I'm a fugitive from justice. They'll get you for aiding and abetting, Cap."

Now is when Tony wants to talk law? He should know by now that Steve will pick what's right over what's legal every time, if it comes down to that. It's not even a question.

"I don't care what they think you are," Steve says, hotly. "You're my friend, and you're innocent. And if anyone wants you, they're going to have to go through me first. Now tell me where you are and what you need."

Tony breathes out again, a long gasp of a breath. "Hair dye," he says, finally.

Steve blinks. "Hair dye?"

"Hair dye," Tony confirms. He's sounding worse and worse. "Well, bleach. Maybe toner? Whatever's in the cabinet in my bathroom. And a razor. And-- painkillers, whatever you've got. Not opioids, though. And not aspirin. And -- oh, God -- bandages. Seriously, a _lot_ of bandages. A fuckton. However many you can find." He sounds a little woozy. Steve hopes like hell that's not the blood loss. It probably is. "Cash if you have it," Tony adds. "I spent everything I had on this hotel room." There's a pause, another groan. "Jesus. This is a lot of blood. Housekeeping's gonna be pissed." He sounds sort of numbly surprised. That's probably shock.

Steve can picture it now, Tony bleeding out, Tony dying--

Tony keeps talking. He names an address in Chinatown. He gives Steve a room number. Steve commits it all to memory.

"Half an hour," Steve says. His bike is too conspicuous. Everyone will know he's Captain America. If he can get out of here and avoid the reporters somehow, he can hail a cab. "You just stay right there, okay, Tony? Don't go anywhere. I'm coming."

Tony's laugh rattles down the line. "Believe me, I'm in no danger of going anywhere right now."

"Yeah, I bet," Steve says. He lets his voice be warm with all the feelings he so desperately wants to say as actual words -- all the sympathy, tenderness, caring.

"Steve?" Tony says. He sounds oddly hesitant. "Thank you." He says it like he honestly thought maybe Steve wouldn't do this for him.

"Anytime," Steve says. "Just hold on. I'll be there soon, okay?"

He hangs up, and he grabs his duffel bag and his shield case from under the bed. Time to raid the infirmary.

* * *

He has a key to Tony's room down the hall -- he's had one for years -- so that's where he heads first. He grabs a change of clothes for Tony, comfortable clothes: socks, underwear, a t-shirt, sweat pants, sneakers. Things that won't hurt him as much to put on. A blanket. Tony might need a blanket. He grabs the charging setup for Tony's artificial heart off his bedside table, as well as the set of screwdrivers underneath. In the bathroom, he opens the cabinet and grabs a razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush, toothpaste. 

Tony has a few boxes of hair dye. Steve considers the fact that a few of them are black and decides that this is not the week to razz Tony about going prematurely gray. He doesn't know exactly which Tony wants and doesn't have time to linger over the boxes, so he sweeps them all -- hoping that one of them is whatever Tony wanted -- into the bag. He takes Tony's soap, shampoo, and conditioner out of the shower, just in case Tony needs it, and then a towel, and he heads out and downstairs.

In the infirmary he takes bandages of all kinds, adhesive and non-. Gauze. Even more bandages. He shoves them in the duffel by the handful. A suture kit, in case Tony's popped his stitches. Antiseptics. The rest of the portable first-aid kit, just in case. A bottle of broad-spectrum antibiotics, because Tony's walking around with open wounds and Steve is pretty sure Tony didn't bring his pills with him when he fled custody. He looks longingly at the morphine, because that's really the painkiller Tony needs, the way he's hurting, but he knows how Tony feels about taking anything potentially addictive. Even if he brought it, Tony wouldn't take it. Sighing, Steve grabs Tylenol and Advil instead. They've got to be better than nothing.

On the way back up he disburses himself $500 out of the Avengers' petty cash. He doesn't know how much Tony needs, but that's most of what the team has on hand. He signs the receipt in a hurried scribble, painfully conscious of the time ticking away, that even now Tony is lying in a hotel in Chinatown, bleeding and bleeding.

He makes one last stop in the kitchen, for a few bottles of water and some granola bars -- Tony's not going to want some of those medications on an empty stomach, after all, and at any rate Tony's going to want to eat something eventually.

God, Tony has to be okay. Please let him be okay.

Jan finds him as he's stuffing prepackaged peanut butter crackers into his duffel and zipping it shut. He slings the bag over his shoulder and picks up his shield case. He's wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He's borrowed a pair of Tony's sunglasses. He hopes he won't look too much like Captain America with the hood up.

"Why did you change clothes?" Jan's looking at him blankly, like his behavior makes no sense.

Steve shrugs. "Got something to do."

He heads out of the kitchen, out of the mansion, out back past the statues, but Jan follows him all the way, practically running to keep up with him. He's in a hurry. He has somewhere to be.

"They're looking for a statement from Captain America, you know," Jan says. "The reporters. They want to know whether you're going to officially call on Tony to turn himself in."

He wonders what Jan expects him to say. He doesn't trust the government to exonerate Tony. SHIELD was supposed to protect him and failed. Hell, for all he knows, they could be in on the frame job. It's not like SHIELD's never tried to kill Tony before.

"No. I'm not." Steve's voice is tight. "He's innocent."

It's then that Jan seems to notice what Steve's doing, as they're getting closer and closer to one of the walls, as Steve walks faster. He stops and rests one hand on the bricks. The press aren't on this side of the building. Steve did check.

"Steve," Jan says, hesitantly. "Steve, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to do the right thing," Steve says. His voice is steady. It's not a rallying cry; it can't be one. But he's going to help Tony, and there's something right about that. There's always been. "I think it's best if you don't know any specific details, in case someone comes calling with questions you don't want to answer."

Jan gives him a tight nod, and he knows she understands. "All right," she says. "Good luck. Stay safe." She smiles. "Tell him we all believe in him, okay?"

He nods back. He tosses the duffel over the wall, then the shield case, and then he scrambles up and over after them. A baseline human probably couldn't have, but, well, he can. And he's willing to do everything he can to save Tony.

He lands hard on the sidewalk, a little dazed. He looks around. No one even gives him a second glance. Traffic doesn't stop. He picks up his bags and starts to head away from the mansion, looking for a cab.

_Hang on, Tony_ , he thinks. _I'm coming for you._

* * *

Steve knocks on the grimy hotel-room door and waits. There's nothing. He wonders if maybe he misremembered the room number, or the address. It's not like his memory to fail him, but he was awfully concerned for Tony's health at the time.

The woman at the front desk didn't seem to take much notice of him as he came in. He hopes it stays that way. But if anyone wanted her to take notice, it wouldn't be that hard; he and Tony -- assuming Tony is here -- are probably the only white guys in the building. They're going to stand out for reasons other than being world-famous superheroes. It's a hell of a place to try to lie low, and Steve wonders why Tony picked it.

There are muffled noises within the room -- a deadbolt sliding open -- and then the door opens.

At least Steve didn't get the address wrong. That's maybe the only good thing about this, he thinks, as he stares at the room beyond him.

Tony is standing there in the doorway, and Steve is honestly not sure how Tony is still upright. He's shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of jeans, and good lord, he looks like he should be in intensive care. There's a bandage around his right biceps, blood soaking through the gauze, dripping down his arm, and all Steve can think is that at least Tony is left-handed. His chest is swathed in more bandages, wrapping all the way around his torso, but he's starting to bleed through there as well; blood is seeping through the bandages at his sternum, around the charging port for his heart. Most of the rest of him is covered in bruises, ugly green-gold shading to purple-black over his ribs. There are a few more bruises on his face, the worst of which is at his temple; blood has dripped down his cheek. He's scraped all over, recent and raw scratches all over his body that he clearly hasn't had the supplies or the strength to try to bandage.

Tony is far too pale. He's shivering, and he's leaning heavily on the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him from falling over.

But Tony smiles at him -- weakly, but it's there. "Hey," he murmurs. His voice is a low croak of pain, but muted, like he's trying his best to stifle it. "God, are you ever a sight for sore eyes." He frowns. "Are those my favorite sunglasses you're wearing?"

He says it like he wants to make a joke of it, like there's something here he can still joke about when he's standing here looking like this.

"Oh, Tony," Steve says, and everything within him is a terrible sad empathy. "Tony, please, let me help you. Here, let me just--"

He doesn't wait for Tony to say yes. Tony's body says it for him; as relief fills his eyes, his overtaxed limbs give out on him entirely, and Tony is shaking and falling forward into Steve's arms. He's graceless, uncoordinated, and Steve -- still holding his bags -- barely catches him.

Tony is pressed to his body, held up by Steve's hand against his lower back. Steve's trying not to hold him too tightly, as Tony is so wounded that he's not exactly sure where it's safe to touch him. Tony's skin is too cold under his hands.

Okay. Steve hasn't gotten this far in life by panicking, and he's not going to start now. They've both seen a lot worse. It's going to be okay, he tells himself.

"I've got you," he says to Tony. He's talking mostly to hear himself talk, but he hopes it's reassuring too; after the past few days, Tony can surely use all the optimism he can get. "It's all right. I'm here. I'm going to fix you up, okay?"

Tony mumbles something against Steve's shoulder that's probably agreement, and Steve awkwardly shuffles forward. As soon as they're inside, Steve shifts Tony just enough so he can drop his bags and shut the door. The sunglasses tip off his face when Tony bumps his head, and he lets them fall too.

The room is about what Steve expected. Not great, but he's seen places in worse condition. There's one double bed. Tony's armor is piled in the corner of the room in pieces, next to the chairs and table. The bathroom door is open, the light on. That's clearly where Tony's been spending his time. There are a few droplets of blood on the sink. Steve winces at the sight.

As much as Tony needs to rest, Steve needs to get him stable first. The bathroom is going to be the easiest place to see what he's doing, if Tony can stay upright. He's just going to trust that Tony can. Together they lumber into the bathroom, and Tony carefully leans back against the counter, levering himself up on it. He's clinging to the edge of it with his fingertips.

"You okay there for a second?" Steve asks, and Tony nods.

He realizes when he turns away that Tony's bled all over his shirt. It's not important, anyway. Tony's what's important here.

Dragging his duffel, Steve returns, and when he looks up Tony is smiling at him. His face is tense, tight with pain, but there's hope in his eyes. Steve feels something warm and bright grow within him. He can do this. He can help.

"Here," Steve says, finding the pill bottles and opening them, to hand Tony two Tylenol and an antibiotic pill. Pain management first, he supposes; maybe the Tylenol will do something, but privately he doubts it. "Your painkiller of choice, and an antibiotic, because I figured you were going to need a course of it."

He gets out the water and uncaps it, offering it to Tony after Tony takes the pills from him. Tony's hand is unsteady, but Steve watches his throat work and he's swallowing, so there's that.

"Thanks." Tony wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and gives Steve the water back. "You're the best." Steve smiles at him, the warm glow within him going even warmer, but Tony just sighs. "They gave me morphine in the hospital. While I was passed out and couldn't tell them not to."

Steve digs out a bunch of gauze, the disinfectant, and the sterile suture thread and the rest of the suture kit, because he's pretty sure just looking at Tony that Tony's ripped some stitches, and he knows what he has to do about it.

_I wish you'd let me give you morphine_ is what Steve wishes he could say, but he can't say that to Tony, not when he knows how important Tony's sobriety is to him.

"I wish you were still in the hospital," he says instead.

Tony's smile is tight and rueful. "Me too," he says. "Catch me saying that ever again, I dare you." He breathes out, a groan that might have been a laugh; his body clearly has objections to him doing that.

He doesn't need to try to keep Steve's spirits up -- it's actually better if he doesn't waste his energy -- but Steve can't say that he's not heartened by Tony's banter. He's always liked talking to Tony.

"I'll make a note of it," Steve says, and Tony's mouth twitches. He reaches out for the bloody mess that is Tony's shoulder, since that's the worst of the visible wounds. "I'm going to take a look at your arm now, okay?"

Tony exhales hard between gritted teeth, bracing for pain. His arm is hanging limply at his side. "Okay."

Steve peels away the bandages, and then the gauze, to find the gunshot wound he was expecting beneath. It's a through-and-through, a nasty piece of work that -- if Tony's lucky, and it looks like he is -- hasn't ruined muscle or bone. But it looks like he's popped every stitch on the front side, the entrance wound, which accounts for why he's been bleeding like a stuck pig. That, and the fact that he was probably fighting while the wound was busy reopening.

Well, this is why he brought all the gauze. He swipes gently at Tony's arm, wiping up the blood, moistening a pad with the antiseptic he brought, cleaning him up even more. Tony breathes, slowly but shallowly, and doesn't say anything. He's starting to look a little better with the blood gone. At least, Steve feels better looking at him, but when he presses his fingers to Tony's wrist, his pulse isn't great. He doesn't seem appreciably worse, but he's not better, either.

Steve's beginning to think he should have called someone. But he's not exactly the kind of hero who keeps the Night Nurse on speed-dial, and at any rate, right now Steve doesn't trust anyone not to sell Tony out. He doesn't know who he can trust except himself.

"I'm going to have to stitch you back up again," Steve says. He makes his voice as calm as he can, as reassuring as he can. It's not the voice Tony likes to call his Cap voice; he's not exactly detached enough for that. Right now he just wants Tony to be okay. "I do know what I'm doing, but in the interests of full disclosure, the last time I did this was 1944, and it's not going to be the best thing you've ever felt."

Tony grimaces. "I don't think you can make me feel that much worse than I already do."

"You have a point," Steve acknowledges.

Steve doesn't realize he's curled his hand around Tony's forearm until he's already done it, until his fingers are stroking a comforting pattern on the inside of Tony's wrist. It's intimate. It's probably too intimate if Steve doesn't ever want Tony to know how he feels about him, but Tony hasn't guessed before now, and, besides, Steve's always touched him a lot and Tony's never seemed to mind.

It's not like Tony minds now, either; when he breathes out, his breath comes a little easier, more relaxed, like Steve's mere presence is making him feel better. Which is good, because he's going to need that.

Steve has actually done this before, but what he's never done is resew anyone before, and so he thinks step one has to be to take out the old sutures. He finds a pair of tweezers in the first-aid kit, and he's not sure that's the official implement, but it looks like it ought to work. As long as he can put Tony back together for right now, it'll be good enough.

Besides, soon enough they're going to figure out how to clear Tony's name, and Tony can get the actual medical care that he urgently needs.

Tony breathes raggedly as Steve starts removing the old sutures, but he doesn't say anything.

"You okay?" Steve asks. "Too much?"

"It's fine," Tony says, but the words are stiff. Steve doesn't like hurting Tony, but he's doing what he has to. "Keep going."

Steve works, and Tony sits in silence while Steve laboriously picks out each stitch. It's definitely not Steve's usual line of work -- usually, he's the one inflicting the wounds on other people, he'd have to say -- but it makes him feel, a little bit, the way being a hero does. He's helping. He's taking care of Tony. And while he knows that Tony has to be in terrible shape before he'll even consider accepting a helping hand -- frankly, it doesn't bode well at all that Tony asked for his help -- he does like taking care of Tony. He likes it a lot. Tony doesn't really need to know about that part.

He washes out the wound with more sterile saline from the kit and decides that that's as clean as he can get Tony. Time to sew him back up. He finds the nitrile gloves in the kit. This isn't exactly the best setting, but that can't be helped.

"Okay," he tells Tony. "Here's the part that's really not fun."

He realizes he's petting Tony's shoulder. Tony's leaned into him, a little, and he supposes that's another sign that Tony doesn't mind.

He threads the needle, takes a deep breath, and pushes it through. It's just like he remembers. Tony makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. Steve thinks maybe he should talk about something, maybe it would be easier if he could distract him, but he hasn't the faintest idea what to say other than _I just want to hold you and keep you safe_ , which is not anything that Tony wants to hear.

Luckily, Tony seems to have the same idea. "So," Tony says, as Steve goes in for the second stitch, "I just want to say that I appreciate this, what you're doing for me. It'll really help when I go find the Mandarin."

Steve squints as he pushes the needle through. "The Mandarin?"

"Well, yeah." Tony breathes out hard as Steve pulls the thread through, tightening the suture. "Who else do you think wants to destabilize the entire continent of Asia and frame me for it?"

When Tony puts it like that, it sounds obvious, but-- "Isn't he dead?"

Steve definitely remembers him dying -- or at least, he remembers that they'd never found his body. It had been last year, in Russia, when he'd captured Tony and taken him to his dragon airship, and Steve had had to stand there on the ground and watch it plummet out of the sky, knowing that Tony was inside. Tony had barely survived.

"He is," Tony confirms. "But he had a son, Temugin. I fought the guy a few months back. He has his father's rings now. And quite a grudge against me, personally."

Steve nods as he readies the needle for a third stitch. "Okay. New Mandarin. Makes sense."

When he glances up to make sure Tony's doing okay, he sees that Tony's expression is dubious. "You're not going to tell me not to go after him?"

"I'm not your keeper, Tony," Steve says, as he pushes the needle through again. He's got the rhythm of this now. "We both know what condition you're in, but you know that I don't make a habit of second-guessing your judgment. If you say he's got to be taken down now, then I'll do everything I can to support you."

The words are a little sterner than he means them to be, and he knows it's himself he's admonishing. Tony's a grown man and a working superhero and Steve has to trust that he's making the right decision. He can't tell Tony to stop doing his job just because he wants Tony to stay safe. That's hypocritical and not what either of them signed up for.

He glances up again, and Tony is smiling. "Okay," Tony murmurs. "Thank you."

"No problem," Steve says, and he finishes the stitch. "Anything for you, Tony." Fortunately, Tony doesn't seem to think the words are too revealing, but Steve covers himself by continuing anyway. "One more stitch, okay? Hold still."

"Can do, Florence Nightingale," Tony murmurs, and Steve smiles.

Steve finishes the last stitch, ties everything off, and gets Tony more gauze and bandages to cover everything up. "I think this one's probably going to scar," he admits, as he wraps the bandages around Tony's arm, then strips off the gloves. "Sorry."

Tony makes a motion mostly with his other shoulder that's probably supposed to be a shrug. "As long as I'm alive, I'm not complaining. I stopped being vain about scars a hell of a long time ago."

Tony's eyes go cloudy as he says it, though, and Steve knows he's thinking of the incident that made him Iron Man. The land mine. The shrapnel. His heart. Tony's never really liked to talk about it, and Steve can't say he blames him.

Unfortunately, they're going to have to approach the topic now, because Steve has to see the state of the wound on Tony's chest. There's not as much blood soaking the gauze as there had been on his arm, but the fact that there's any is a bad sign.

"All right," Steve says. "I'm going to need to see your chest now. That okay with you?"

Tony's gaze flickers and grows darker and Steve knows that Tony would very much have liked to say no, but there aren't any other options, and he knows that too.

"That's fine." Tony's voice is tight, and he's not looking at him.

Gingerly, Steve begins to unwrap the bandages around Tony's torso, the ones holding the mound of gauze to his breastbone. He knows Tony has issues about being touched here. Being seen, even. And now Steve needs to look at him.

Back in the days when he'd needed the chestplate to live, Tony had barely touched anyone; he'd said he'd been doing it to preserve his secret identity, but even after the Senate hearing where the whole world saw the chestplate, he still never liked to be touched. After the surgery, after the synthetic heart, he'd started touching Steve like he'd been starving for it, but he almost always kept a shirt on. Steve was never sure if it was some kind of shame or embarrassment or self-consciousness, and he'd never figured out how to tell Tony everything about him was okay with him.

After Onslaught they'd come back better, and Tony's heart was perfect, Tony's skin unmarred. Tony walked around shirtless, like maybe he finally liked the way he looked, like he wanted to be looked at -- but that only lasted until Tony's own armor tried to kill him, ending by plunging its own artificial heart into his chest to save him. Steve can just barely see the charging port above the mass of bandages. And since then Tony's been scarred again, and he hasn't really wanted anyone to see.

Steve's been willing to take whatever Tony gives him, and he'd be happy -- hell, he'd be overjoyed -- to look at Tony all day long, no matter how many scars he has, but he knows it makes Tony uncomfortable.

Tony's tensing up now, as Steve gets the last of the gauze off and finally gets a good look at him.

It's honestly not as bad as Steve thought it might be; Tony only popped half his stitches rather than all of them. Half is still terrible, admittedly, but Steve will take it, especially since he doesn't seem to have bled as much from this one as he did from his arm. The wound itself is right up against the edge of the charging port, but what Steve is most taken with is the way Tony looks now, since the fight with his own armor. The port itself sits at the nexus of a dozen other scars, radiating outward like light from the heart of a flame, and all Steve wants to do is run his hands over Tony's body, to reaffirm to himself that Tony is alive, that Tony survived this.

He can't give in. He has to think of Tony just as someone he's helping. And it's plain that Tony wouldn't want him to do what he wants, either; his face is tighter and tighter, more awkward.

"Gonna cost you a nickel if you keep staring, Cap," Tony drawls. "I don't take my clothes off for free."

It's a joke, of course, because Tony doesn't and Tony wouldn't and they're not like that, the two of them -- but it's a joke Tony's making because he is, as he'd call it, freaking out. And Steve doesn't want to put anything more on him than is already there. Tony doesn't want them to be closer than this.

Belatedly, Steve clears his throat. "I don't think I can sew this one. It's too close to the port. But it's not bad enough, anyway, that it should need it. I've got a couple of butterfly bandages, though. Might be able to tape it back together."

"Okay." Tony's throat works. "Go for it."

Tony shivers when Steve touches him, when Steve swipes over his chest with the antiseptic. The scars are hard and ridged under Steve's fingertips, and Steve has to ask: "Am I hurting you? I mean, uh, the scars, are they--"

Tony shakes his head. "You're not hurting me." But his voice is gruff, and he still looks awkward. This is clearly not his favorite subject, at all.

He has to ask this too: "How's your heart holding up?"

"The bullet bounced right off my heart, apparently." Tony's mouth pulls to one side, an exaggerated frown. "So, you know, could be better. It's still functional, though."

The sympathy, the care, everything Steve can't let himself express -- it all wells up within him, and he swallows hard and pushes it back and concentrates on placing the bandage just right, spreading it out over Tony's skin. This is how he gets to touch Tony now. He can do this for him. He needs to focus on that.

"I brought your charging setup," Steve says. "In case you need it." He's never actually seen Tony use it, but he knows enough to recognize it.

Tony's grimace is even harsher. "Thanks, but I-- I'm really hoping I won't need it." At Steve's quizzical look, he elaborates: "Charging this heart isn't like the old chestplate. It-- it hurts. A lot." Tony's gaze is bleak. "The state I'm in right now, I'm at least going to pass out. I can't guarantee it'll be too good for me."

God. If even Tony, who routinely ignores all medical advice, is saying it's going to be bad -- it must be absolutely horrific.

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry." Steve hangs his head. "I didn't know."

He realizes his hands are splayed across Tony's chest. He needs to put the bandages back on. Tony will be happier. Steve is done with the wound here, anyway; he has no excuse to keep touching him.

And then he feels a light pressure on his head, and looks up. Tony's reaching out, shakily, pushing his hair back, smiling gently at him.

"Hey, no, nothing to be ashamed of," Tony says, gently. "It was kind of you. And I might end up needing it anyway."

"All right," Steve says. "I guess I'll just--"

He doesn't really want to talk about why he can't keep his hands off Tony, so he reaches for more gauze, more bandages, and quietly tapes him back up again. He thinks Tony's looking a little better. That's good. Maybe now Tony can lie down, get warm, start to feel even better.

And then he remembers what Pepper told him. Tony was shot three times, and he can only see two wounds on him. She hadn't said where any of them were except the chest wound. But whatever the third one is, Steve should check that, too.

"Can I see the other wound?" he asks.

Tony gives him a look that makes him go hot all over. It's the look Steve's seen him give his dates sometimes. It's the look he's seen him give photographers. It's not _real_ , Steve knows, but hell if it isn't flirtatious. Tony's smiling at him, his lips curved like he knows a secret -- which he doesn't, Steve tells his pounding heart -- and he's looking at Steve through his lashes. It's kind of impressive that Tony can manage the act at all, given the fact that he's just survived three consecutive attempts on his life.

"Well," Tony says, his voice almost a purr, "since we're such good friends..."

He finishes the sentence by undoing his fly one-handed, and he manages to push his jeans halfway off one of his hips before he starts smiling a real smile, like he's proud of this hilarious joke.

It isn't real, Steve reminds himself, but the prickling of heat low in his belly tells him that his body sure doesn't believe Tony is kidding.

Steve breathes, swallows, tries to get himself under control. Tony's still struggling with his jeans. "Okay," he says, and he's proud of how steady his voice is. "Let me help you out there."

Wobbling, Tony stands up and leans away from the counter so Steve, who still has two good hands, can finish getting his jeans down for him. Thank God Tony's wearing sensible boxer-briefs; if it were another thong, Steve would probably die right here.

There's another folded wad of gauze on the outside of Tony's thigh. There's no blood soaking the gauze this time, so this time Tony might actually be okay. But given that he popped stitches on both his other wounds, Steve should still examine this one.

He swallows hard and drops to his knees. This isn't what it looks like, he tells himself. This isn't what his body wants it to be. Blood is pounding through him, and he's at least half-hard, and he feels terrible about it, but it's not like his erection knows any better.

He takes a slow, ragged breath. He's helping Tony, he tells himself, as he unwinds the bandage, as he peels away the gauze. This is about Tony. Tony's not interested, and even if he were, this is really not the time.

"How's it look?" It's Tony's normal voice now, underscoring that the joking flirtation was just that -- a joke.

Steve inspects the revealed wound critically. It looks... fine. No blood, no signs of infection. "I think you're good," he concludes.

He reaches for fresh gauze, new bandages, and he focuses on taping Tony back up again. He's being professional. Tony pulls his jeans back up and fumbles with his fly -- his other arm still isn't in great shape -- and Steve stands up and helps him get his pants on, holding the button in place so Tony can fasten it.

This wasn't how he ever pictured being this close to Tony.

Professional. Detached. Steve exhales hard. He can do this. He's been doing this for a decade. No reason he can't keep doing this now.

He gets an arm around Tony and Tony leans on him as he helps Tony over to the bed. Steve's about to get him a shirt when he realizes that Tony would have to raise his arms, and he figures Tony's not in the mood for that. So he takes off his own sweatshirt, because it zips up, and he holds it out for Tony. Somehow Tony didn't manage to bleed on that.

Tony pulls up the hood, sinking deeply into the sweatshirt. He smiles a grateful smile. "Thanks."

Steve goes to get the extra blanket from the duffel, because Tony leans back and sprawls across the top of the sheets.

"Here," Steve says, spreading the blanket over him. "All the comforts of home."

"I can hide from the government in style," Tony agrees. He's already looking a little better. Thank God.

Steve wants to hold him tight. But instead he goes to the corner and takes his place in the chair that's waiting there. He does compromise with himself by dragging it a little closer to Tony, at least.

"So," Steve says. "What's the plan?"

Tony blows out a breath. "I tracked down a guy who was partly responsible for framing me. He'd infiltrated the North Koreans. But when I started asking him questions... it turned out the people he was working for were able to remotely trigger some kind of implant in his brain that, uh. Set him on fire." He winces. "So he couldn't answer so many of my questions then, being dead. But I was able to get a rough trace on the signal that set him off. It's somewhere in Chinatown. Not exactly sure where yet. That's why I'm here. If I find the source, I find the Mandarin. So it's time to pound the pavement."

It makes sense. But Steve sees Tony's problem -- Iron Man can't exactly do a flyover without being spotted, and even out of the armor, Tony is too recognizable. "That's why you needed the hair dye," he realizes.

Tony tips his head and grins. "Yeah, that's why I need the hair dye." He glances over at the armor. "I'm also going to need to cannibalize some of the armor to make something handheld that can trace the signal without me needing to wear the full suit in public. And I'd like some help with my hair, if you're up for it. But after that, obviously, you can get on with whatever else you're doing."

Does Tony really think he's _leaving_?

Steve stares at him in confusion. "I don't think you understand," Steve says. "When I said I'd do anything, I meant it. There is no _whatever else_. I'm here for you. I'm here as long as you need me. You need to find the Mandarin? Then that's what we're doing. Together." He pauses. "If you want."

For a few seconds Tony says nothing... but then he smiles the biggest smile Steve has ever seen, and it makes him feel warm and alive, like coming out of the ice all over again into a new world.

"God, I don't deserve you," Tony says under his breath. And then he smiles even wider. "I'd give you a hug," he says, wistful but fervent, "but I'd have to stand up."

"Yeah, no," Steve says, even as he wishes that could happen. "You stay right there. You're not undoing all my hard work. I'll move."

He scoots his chair closer, stretches out, and rests his hand on Tony's uninjured shoulder. Still smiling, Tony leans into the touch.

They can get through this, Steve tells himself. They can get through anything as long as they're together.

* * *

Tony rests. He has some more water and half a granola bar from Steve's stash as he flips through TV channels, switching from one news station to the next, keeping tabs on the government's hunt for him. But if they have any leads, they're not leaking them. Unlike everything else so far today.

He leaves the TV on CNN, puts the remote on the nightstand, and raises an eyebrow at Steve. "Mind if we swap positions? I think I can probably sit upright now, and I'd like to get to work on a tracker."

"Sure thing." Steve gets up as Tony struggles out of the blankets and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

By the time Steve has dragged the chair back to the table -- he figures Tony is going to want the table -- Tony is upright and wobbling, and Steve hastens to his side as he limps across the room. Steve has to wonder how Tony thinks he's in any condition to track down the Mandarin. But it has to be done, so that means they'll have to figure out a way.

Tony leans gratefully against him and together they manage to ease him down into the chair.

"Thank you," Tony says, with a bright smile that then turns wry and crooked, "but do you think you could see your way clear to bringing me my armor?"

"Oh! Of course." Steve eyes the shining pile of metal in the far corner. "Anything in particular?"

"The helmet, the front chestplate, and the right gauntlet," Tony says, promptly.

When Steve sets them down on the little table, one at a time, Tony immediately goes for the gauntlet. He turns it over and opens up a panel Steve has never noticed and pulls out what looks like a little repair kit. But Tony's squinting at it like something about this is somehow disappointing.

"Is there a problem?" Steve ventures.

Tony pulls his mouth to one side. "Not anything you can help with. I was just wishing I had a better set of tools. I should have asked you to bring the set from my bedroom, I suppose, but I wasn't... thinking at my clearest."

Well, what do you know. "Actually," Steve begins, and then he gets up to grab the kit he'd shoved into his duffel bag. "I might have taken a few liberties with those orders."

And Tony just lights up, brighter than anything. "You're _amazing_ ," he breathes.

The rush of joy is better than anything Steve can remember feeling in the past week. "I'm also terrible at following orders."

"Eh," Tony says, with another lopsided shrug. "I'm not complaining."

He holds the kit out, and their hands brush as Tony takes it, and he has to repress a shiver.

He's not what Tony wants, he reminds himself.

Retreating, he takes Tony's place. He's watching the news, or pretending to, but mostly he's watching Tony work, his head bent over the armor. He's always loved watching Tony work. Tony's built the future. He's built things to save their lives a hundred times over. And now he's saving his own.

Abruptly, Steve's attention is caught by the news, as the screen is showing a familiar sight: the front gates of Avengers Mansion.

The reporter gestures at the mansion behind her, still swarmed by all kinds of other news crews. "Today's big question: will Captain America now publicly call for Iron Man's surrender to authorities?"

"Boy are they going to be disappointed when they figure out Captain America's not there," Steve says.

He folds his hands behind his head and leans against the headboard. He smiles. And then he glances over at Tony and feels the smile fade from his face, because Tony's head has snapped up and he's glancing warily between Steve and the TV like he can't quite shake the idea that Steve might actually be going to turn him in.

"Are you?" Tony asks, quietly. "Going to call for it?"

Steve thought they were past this. " _Tony_. Really?"

"This is illegal, you know." Palm up, Tony gestures around the room. "What we're doing."

"Yes," Steve says, as patiently as he can. "I know. I'm still here."

_I'd go to the ends of the earth for you_ , he wants to say. _Don't you know that?_

Tony breathes out. "Okay," he says, like he's trying to convince himself. "Okay." And then he squints critically at Steve. "I don't know what to do about you, though. How to hide you. I mean, we're bleaching my hair, and I'm planning on shaving, but people know what you look like now that you've dropped the secret identity too, and it's not like you're not... memorable." He pauses on the word and licks his lips. He looks like he wanted to say something else. Steve doesn't know what. Tony's gaze is lingering on him, a little too long, like he means something else by it, and Steve doesn't know what that is, either.

Focus, he tells himself. He's here to help Tony. He needs a disguise. And then he thinks about everything he took from Tony's bathroom cabinet.

"I wasn't sure which of the dyes you needed," he says, "so I brought everything on the shelf. You have black dye. I think that'll work."

There's a pause, and then Tony wrinkles his nose. "Steve," he says, very sternly, and Steve braces himself for disapproval, "you are going to look _awful_ with black hair."

Oh. Relieved that it isn't anything more serious, Steve waves a hand, dismissing the objection. "That doesn't matter."

"I don't think you understand," Tony says, like he's seriously offended on Steve's behalf that Steve isn't going to be _pretty_ anymore, which is just ridiculous. "With your complexion, you're going to look really, seriously terrible. And white-blond like you? That dye is never coming out. You're going to have to either grow it all out or shave your head."

"Yeah," Steve says, and he can feel himself smiling, "I don't actually care."

He has bigger problems than that. After Tony's safe, then Steve can worry about his hair.

Tony shakes his head ruefully, but he's smiling. "It's your funeral."

* * *

In the hours they've spent in this room, somehow their decade-long friendship has shifted into some new realm, some nebulous zone Steve doesn't want to name, for fear of breaking it. It feels like they could do anything, like they could be anything to each other, like somehow their relationship is full of possibilities that didn't exist yesterday.

It could just be Steve thinking it, of course -- but the thing about him and Tony is that he's hardly ever wrong about Tony.

This strange world, this liminal space -- it starts when Tony picks up the razor. Tony has decided to shave first. Steve sits on the edge of the bathtub and watches Tony lather up his face. With careful strokes of his razor, with the precision with which Tony does everything in his life, he shaves off his entire beard, mustache and all.

He does the whole thing in silence, then washes his face in the sink, pats his chin dry with a towel, and then turns to Steve, smiling.

Steve doesn't think he's seen Tony clean-shaven before. Ever. Tony's alternated between a mustache and a Van Dyke as his whims take him, but he's never shaved it all off, not that Steve can remember. It's strange, seeing him like this. Unfamiliar. His brain keeps trying to tell him that it isn't Tony, and while Steve knows that that's exactly why Tony did it, that doesn't make it any less strange. He's not sure he likes it. He wants Tony to remain himself.

"Well? How do I look?" Tony asks. He's beaming even more widely. It's easier to read his feelings by looking at him like this, now that his whole face is visible, Steve thinks, even though that shouldn't really be true, should it? But it feels true. Like Tony can't hide, like this. He finds that thought somehow pleasing. He wants to know everything Tony will give him.

Steve considers what to say. "Younger," he says, finally.

Tony chuckles. "You sure know how to flatter a guy." His eyes are practically sparkling, and that-- it doesn't look like a joke, like it did earlier. It looks almost real, like they're edging closer and closer to a world where they could say these things and mean them.

"My ma raised me right," Steve says, even as some dazed part of his brain wonders what they're doing, if Tony is really flirting with him, if Steve should really be flirting back.

They don't act like this. They don't flirt like this. But it feels like they could, now. They could do whatever they wanted.

But Steve knows he has to pull away. This isn't what Tony needs from him right now, and if he's wrong, if it is all a joke to Tony -- well, he's not willing to stake one of the best friendships of his life on this.

So he breaks Tony's gaze and grabs the bleach kit that Tony has left on the counter. "Okay," he says. "You're going to need to talk me through this."

"Okay," Tony says, and Steve tells himself he isn't paying any attention as Tony takes Steve's sweatshirt off, leaving himself bare to the waist again, before wrapping a towel around his neck. Probably a good idea not to get bleach in open wounds. "I can absolutely do that."

* * *

It turns out that coloring Tony's hair is actually... nice.

The box Tony has is actually a kit for bleaching. There are gloves for Steve, and a little bowl in which Steve, at Tony's direction, mixes a blue powder and a liquid, stirring them to get a thicker liquid with a consistency very much like paint. There's even a brush in the box.

Tony sits down on the edge of the bathtub, where Steve was sitting, so that Steve will be able to see his entire head, and he glances up. He winks. "You ready to make me beautiful?"

_You're already beautiful_ is something he definitely can't say. Tony was joking.

Steve swallows hard, nods, picks up the bowl.

It's just like his art school days, really. All he has to do is paint.

It's easy for him to zone out as he concentrates on coating Tony's hair with the mixture, making sure it's all covered and that he hasn't missed a spot. It's relaxing. Meditative. He gets this way when he draws, sometimes. There's nothing else in the world but what he's working on. He wonders if this is how Tony feels about engineering.

He's helping. He's always liked helping. And, most of all, he's always liked helping Tony.

Tony shuts his eyes and bows his head. He doesn't say anything. Steve wonders what he's thinking.

Eventually he's done, of course. When he's positive there's no spot on Tony's head left untouched, he sets the bowl on tub next to him and steps back.

"Okay," Steve says. It seems strange to talk, like he hasn't talked in ages, like he's interrupting some kind of ritual. "Now what?"

"Now you go look at the clock for me," Tony says, promptly, "because in half an hour we're going to wash this out."

Oh. Somehow it never occurred to Steve that there would be downtime. He walks out, checks the clock on the nightstand -- he relays the time to Tony -- and then looks up to find Tony clambering out of the bathtub and opening the box of black dye. Tony's pulling the included gloves on with a snap.

"And now you're going to come back here and switch places with me," Tony says, cheerfully. "I'll dye you while we wait."

No downtime after all, then. Steve blinks at him. "Do you want me to take my shirt off?"

Nodding, Tony waggles his eyebrows at him, a parody of lewdness. It's got to mean something, but it doesn't, because if it meant something, it wouldn't be a joke.

Steve sighs and does what he's told.

When he settles down, in the tiny bathroom, it strikes him how intimate this is, with their positions reversed. Tony's practically standing between his legs. He waits for Tony to do the same thing he did, to paint the dye on, but Tony's standing there with a squeeze bottle. He figures Tony knows what he's doing.

"Head down," Tony says, and Steve obediently tips his chin to his chest.

The dye is wet and it stings a little, and then it's immediately followed by Tony's hands in his hair. Before Steve can help it, he hears himself make a noise, a quiet surprised noise of pleasure, as Tony rubs the dye into his hair with both hands. God, that feels... really, really good.

"You're not going to use the brush instead?" Steve asks, even as he wonders why he's asking, because, Jesus, he never wants Tony to stop touching him.

People don't really touch Steve's hair. Not even people Steve has dated. His hair's not really very interesting, or at least he's never thought of it as such. He doesn't even have interesting haircuts. The Army trained him not to bother, really. But now Tony's touching his hair, his palm sliding over Steve's scalp, and Steve's beginning to wonder where this has been all his life.

"Nah," Tony says. Steve still isn't looking up, but Tony sounds like he's smiling. "You know me. I like working with my hands."

He doesn't know what to say but _please touch me_ and he's positive that even this strange relationship will not support that. But Tony touches him, Tony touches him without being asked. Tony's hands slide through his hair and somehow it just feels _incredible_ , like he's touch-starved and he never noticed. He hopes he's not leaning into Tony.

Tony's taking care of him, he realizes. They take care of each other.

Steve isn't really sure how much time passes; Tony does pause once or twice, presumably to check the clock. But when he stops, Steve immediately wants his hands on him again. He knows he can't ask. For God's sake, Tony's hurting. He's not going to ask Tony to do anything he doesn't absolutely have to.

Steve's happiness is not a consideration. He understands this.

Finally, Tony steps back, but when Steve moves to stand up, Tony holds out a hand, still gloved.

"No, stay there," Tony says. "Tilt your head all the way back, close your eyes, and hold still."

Steve does. But Tony doesn't touch him.

"You aren't even going to ask why?" Tony says, wondering. It sounds like he meant it to be amused, but it comes out as awe. Like he can't believe Steve would just give this to him. Steve wishes he could see him.

"I trust you," Steve says, and Tony makes a very quiet sound, almost broken.

"Well, then." Tony's voice is unsteady. "Okay. Just hold still a little longer." There's a light pressure as Tony's thumb swipes over his brow. "I should let you know that the box tells you not to do this exact thing that I am doing. But you, my very blond friend, are going to attract even more attention if I don't give you eyebrows somehow, and I don't exactly have an eyebrow pencil on me."

"It's not like you can blind me," Steve says, and Tony makes a snorting noise that is probably agreement. "Also it's not the most ill-advised thing I've done today. I'll live."

"Now that's the Steve Rogers I know," Tony says. He leaves the sentence hanging, and it sounds sort of like he meant to say _and love_.

Steve doesn't push it.

* * *

They rinse out and wash Tony's hair, after they finish putting the dye in Steve's. Trying to wash Tony's hair in the sink is more awkward than Steve had thought it would be, and he feels terrible every time Tony shifts position and hisses in stifled pain. Tony should be lying down. Tony should be in a hospital.

Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair, massaging the conditioner in. He's finally gotten to take the gloves off. Tony's scalp is warm under his fingertips, his hair slippery with conditioner. Tony shudders and pushes up ever so slightly against Steve's hands. Steve wonders if it feels as nice as it did when Tony was touching his hair. He thinks that's probably a question he can't ask.

When they finish, Tony pushes himself upright, bracing his hands on the sink, and gives Steve a crooked grin. Seeing Tony as a blond is startling. It's not like looking into a mirror -- they look nowhere near the same -- but he feels like asking Tony why he wanted to go blond when he didn't want to be himself is another one of those questions that's going to press on some very uncomfortable truths.

And then Tony shoves the bottle of conditioner into his hand. "Your turn," he says. "Rinse that out, don't get it in your eyes, and then condition your hair. Just condition it. Don't shampoo first." He eyes Steve thoughtfully. "It would probably be easier if you showered. I just couldn't do it without getting my stitches wet, or I would have."

Steve's fingers close numbly around the bottle. He's not sure why he's not moving. Tony's eyes are very blue, he thinks. Has he ever really noticed that before?

The flow of Tony's words pauses, like he's going down the stairs and missed a step. "Or, I mean," Tony says, hesitating, "I could return the favor, if you wanted?"

_God, yes, touch me all over_. "No," Steve says, hurriedly, appalled at his own brain. "I'll be fine by myself."

He's not going to make Tony touch him to satisfy his own prurient interest, and he's definitely not going to make Tony touch him when Tony is walking wounded and shouldn't be focusing on any physical needs other than his own.

Not that this is a need. It's just a desire. Steve knows by now that he doesn't get everything he wants. That's how life works. He accepts that.

Then, of course, he can't help but think about Tony joining him in the shower, and that is definitely not a thought he should have.

Tony regards him for another second or two, his gaze unreadable, then he shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, and he closes the bathroom door as he leaves. A few seconds later, the TV comes on again.

Steve sighs and turns the water on. Stripping down, he glances down at his half-hard cock in frustration and annoyance as he steps into the shower. He tips his head back into the spray, letting the dye run down his body in dark rivulets, and he thinks about taking care of himself in an entirely different way while he's in here. Tony's got the TV on, and Steve knows Tony won't hear him. Five years in the Army taught him to see to his own needs quickly and quietly whenever there was privacy to be had.

But Tony is very, very injured and also fleeing the FBI and it would be profoundly selfish to just stand in here and jerk off when Tony's out there in pain. He can wait.

Steve sighs, shuts his eyes, and washes all the dye out. Eventually his erection subsides.

When he's done with his hair, he gets out of the shower, towels off, puts his pants back on, glances briefly at the mirror -- it's too fogged-up to see -- and realizes he left his shirt in the other room. Still a little damp, he slings the towel around his neck and opens the door anyway.

Tony is propped up on the bed, watching TV, but when he sees Steve he can't take his eyes off him. His mouth drops. A tiny part of Steve's brain entertains the oh-so-hopeful thought that maybe Tony just likes looking at him half-naked and wet from the shower, but then reality sinks in: Tony's probably staring at him for the exact opposite reason, because he's just dyed his hair black, and he probably looks terrible.

"Do I look that bad?" Steve asks.

"No," Tony says, too quickly, which means _yes_. "It's just... striking."

That was probably the nicest way Tony could put it, huh?

He wonders if they're mirror images now. They're new people. They're each other. They could do anything. They won't. An odd kind of longing twists within him and is gone.

Tony stretches out on the bed and yawns, and Steve realizes that Tony's probably exhausted. He's had a hell of a day.

"So I'm thinking," Tony says, between yawns, "that we get some rest, and tomorrow morning we hit the streets." When he looks over at Steve it's with apology in his eyes. "I know this is the part of the evening where I would usually insist that you take the bed and I can sleep on the floor, but I'm sorry, I'm really--"

"Take the bed," Steve says, quickly, interrupting him. "Please. Don't even consider doing otherwise, dear God. I can sleep in the chair. I don't want to hear a single word of you offering me the bed, okay?"

"Okay," Tony says. "I'll take the bed."

_Maybe I could join you_ , he thinks. It's a terrible thought. It can't happen. But, God, he wants it to.

Instead, he gets up, flips off the light, and settles down in the chair. He drags the chair back, makes sure he's between Tony and the door, makes sure his shield case is where he can reach it."Night, Tony."

"Night, Steve," Tony says, slurred and drowsy. "Wake me up if I need more pills?"

"Will do."

Tony's mouth twitches in a smile. "Knew I liked you," he murmurs. "You're always so good to me."

Steve's not tired, so he can keep watch. He sits and waits as Tony's breathing evens out. He tells himself that Tony didn't mean anything by it. Tony's his friend. Tony's just tired. They have bigger problems to concern themselves with.

* * *

Steve wakes before Tony does, of course. He's restless with the need to get up, get outside, do something. He thinks maybe Tony would appreciate breakfast; it's not like the hotel is classy enough to serve anything.

After he gets his shoes on, he stands in the middle of the room, looking at Tony, who is still asleep. He has the covers pulled over himself, halfway up his face; Steve can see blond hair and Tony's closed eyes, and that's it. Tony's going to be upset if he wakes up and Steve's gone. He should let him know where he's going. Tony can go back to sleep afterwards.

This is what he's thinking as he reaches out, sets his hand on Tony's shoulder, and shakes him lightly.

He should have thought about it a little more.

Tony's eyes snap open, Tony sits up, and then Tony's fist connects with his jaw.

Staggering backward, pain bursting through his face, Steve gets his other hand on Tony's other shoulder as Tony struggles up out of the blankets, wild-eyed. He doesn't want to hurt Tony more, so he's not holding him as firmly as he could be. Tony manages to knock one of his hands away, and he's reaching for Steve's throat--

"Hey, hey, Tony!" Steve gasps. "Tony, no, it's me!"

Tony blinks, focuses, and then goes limp, dropping back to the bed. "Steve?" he asks. He's panting.

Steve tries to smile at him. "That's my name."

"Did I hurt you?" Tony's question is urgent.

Steve shakes his head. "I'm fine. How about you? Did you rip your stitches?"

"No," Tony says. "No, I'm okay, I'm just--" he grimaces. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm just a little bit... on edge, you know? The last person who woke me up was trying to murder me."

God. Of course he's twitchy.

"Oh," Steve says, numbly.

He wants to pet Tony's face. He doesn't think Tony would find that reassuring.

Tony seems to shift gears. "So what did you want me for?"

"It's nothing." He's embarrassed now because it really is nothing, and it hardly seems worth waking Tony up for. "I just wanted to let you know I was going to find us some breakfast."

But Tony just beams at him. "Five-star service at this hotel, huh? That's sweet of you. You don't have to." He's pushing himself upright. "You want me to come with you?"

"No, I can handle it," Steve says. "I'll get you something."

Tony doesn't fight him on this, which is probably a sign of how terrible he feels. He just waves, pointing in the direction of the table, where his armor is still spread out from when he was making a tracking device. "Take the room key with you. It's under the helmet."

Steve snags the room key and brings back Tony's gauntlet, which he sets on the nightstand. "Shoot anyone who isn't me."

"Got it," Tony says.

* * *

Outside, Steve discovers, it's shaping up to be a nice day. The sky is a cloudless blue. There aren't too many people out and about yet, and no one even gives him a second glance. The walls of most of the buildings he passes are papered with flyers, strings of cheap photocopies, that just say _KCl_ with a phone number underneath. Steve's never seen the word before. It's probably some kind of rock 'n' roll band, one of those "alternative" acts the kids like. Steve makes a face. Give him Glenn Miller any day.

Around the corner he finds a newspaper kiosk. He fishes fifty cents out of his pocket for a copy of today's Daily Bugle, even as he winces at the headline and picture: TONY STARK AT LARGE, with the photo being the wreckage of the highway overpass where the SHIELD van was ambushed. He knows they need to keep tabs on the investigation, but Tony's not going to be happy about that. He folds the paper under his arm and keeps going.

Down another block he finds a bakery, open for breakfast, which is when he starts to wish Tony was with him, because Tony knows enough Chinese to make ordering a lot easier, and what he doesn't know he can make up for by being charming as hell. Though, since that would make them stand out, Steve's also sort of glad Tony isn't here. He ends up with a paper bag full of pork buns and a paper cup of coffee in each hand, all of which he carefully balances as he heads back to their hotel.

He opens the door and Tony jumps but doesn't actually try to shoot him from where he's still lying in bed, so Steve's going to call that progress on the combat-fatigue front.

Steve sets the coffees and the bag down on the side of the table that doesn't have armor. "Breakfast is served." And then he unfolds the paper and sets it atop the armor. "And also you made the front page."

Tony stands up and comes over to join him. He's walking a little stiffly, but he's not limping like he was yesterday. Steve watches his nose wrinkle as he sees the headline. "And here I was hoping that Spider-Man being a menace to the public would get top billing from Jameson."

"Yeah, well," Steve says, as he opens the bag and hands Tony a pork bun, "if Spider-Man had gotten himself involved in a confrontation with air-to-surface missiles on the Long Island Expressway, I'm sure he'd have made headlines too."

"Fair enough," Tony says, and then he stuffs half the pork bun into his mouth at once. He must be starving. "Mmmf. Thank you."

"No problem," Steve says, and he passes Tony the bottle of antibiotics with his next bun.

Tony washes down a pill with coffee and Steve takes advantage of this to push more food to Tony's side of the table. Steve can fight on low rations if he has to, and Tony needs all the energy he can get.

He wonders how the hell Tony's going to fight the Mandarin like this.

* * *

Once breakfast is over, they hit the streets. 

Steve doesn't usually get nervous. He's been a soldier since 1940. He's fought men like Zemo and Strucker and the Red Skull more times than he can count. He was on Omaha Beach. He doesn't get combat nerves. But today, anxiety is jangling dissonantly within him. He's not cut out for this undercover work, this skulking around in shadows, and he wants to jump out of his skin every time a car slows down or someone passing them on the street gives them a sidelong glance.

He doesn't have his shield, and that's making it worse. They decided that he was going to look too suspicious if he was carrying around a portfolio case, so it's back at the hotel room along with most of Tony's armor. They're unarmed. They can't fight. Well, they could fight, if they had to, but he's so used to having the shield that every instinct in him is telling him that he can't protect Tony like this. He feels practically naked.

They can probably hold their own against the FBI -- the feds are still ordinary humans, after all -- but if the Mandarin decides to set upon them right now, they're toast.

At least he hasn't seen anyone coming after them. That's Steve's role in this plan: to play lookout. He's not sure what to do if they have to make a run for it. He's not sure Tony _can_ make a run for it. Tony insisted on wearing the chestplate under his shirt. He says it powers the tracker somehow, but Steve thinks that Tony's just hoping it will keep him upright if his stitches break again.

Tony continues to be intent on his tracker. Or rather, he's as intent as anyone can be who has to make it look like he's not doing anything suspicious. Tony's checking every block or so, and he just keeps looking more and more discouraged. Not counting the break for lunch, they've been at this for a good five hours now, with no luck.

Of course, it probably doesn't help that they're circling back around to the same blocks that they started with. Steve's been letting Tony set the search pattern, because this is Tony's show, but he's not seeing why they're here again. The last block was one they already went down as well. There's nothing new here, just endless KCl flyers. Steve thinks maybe there are more of them than there were this morning.

"Uh, Tony," Steve says. "I'm not telling you how to run this search, but haven't we been here?"

Tony nods, distracted, as he sneaks another glance at the tracker, then frowns and slides it back into his coat pocket. "We have. But the thing is, this tracker doesn't have great range, and since I can't just walk around scanning continuously and basically have to spot-check -- I want to make sure I cover all the spots on each block."

Oh. Steve understands now. "So you need more data than you can get on one pass, and we can't just circle the block repeatedly all at once without being suspicious."

Tony gives him that smile he really enjoys, the one he uses when he's so pleased that Steve has followed along with his explanation. "Right."

It's mostly the scientists who can keep up with Tony, and Steve's heard other people complain about it -- though not in Tony's hearing -- but Steve has honestly never had a problem figuring out what Tony means. He wonders if that's part of the reason they get along so well.

"So," Steve says, "we're not getting any closer, are we? Are we headed in the right direction?"

Tony makes a face and runs a finger around the collar of his shirt. "It doesn't exactly work like that. It's not like I have a lock on the signal and I'm following it as it gets stronger. I wish I were doing that. I just have the signal programmed in and I'll know it when I find it. So right now it's just a matter of... hoping we stumble across the signal."

He's looking more and more disconsolate as he speaks. He looks tired. Pale. He's sweating too much, and it's not even that hot. He doesn't look so good, Steve thinks, and it occurs to him that even this is a lot to ask of a man in Tony's current physical condition.

"Okay," Steve says. "You want to call it a day for now? Get some food into you, get some more rest, start again tomorrow?"

Tony tilts his chin up like he wants to challenge that. "The Mandarin bombed a goddamn embassy. He killed hundreds of people. We have to find him--"

"I know," Steve says. "Trust me, I know. But right now you have to take care of yourself first, otherwise you won't be able to do that, okay?"

_Let me take care of you_ , he wants to say, but the words are too intimate, too revealing, and for God's sake they're standing here in public.

For an instant Tony looks like he still wants to fight him, but then he exhales hard. Steve thinks he'd slump if he weren't wearing the chestplate. "Yeah, okay," Tony acknowledges. "I'm running on empty."

Steve smiles a smile he hopes is reassuring. "Come on, then, Shellhead. Let's fill you back up."

Tony quirks an eyebrow, but he says nothing. He just falls into step next to Steve, and together they turn and start walking the way they came, back toward the hotel. Steve wishes they could go to their real home, back to the mansion together.

Soon. Soon they'll be home. Soon they'll all be okay, and Tony's name will be cleared, and he can finally heal. Steve just has to keep him safe until then.

And he just needs to stop thinking about having anything more with Tony. It's not going to happen.

* * *

Dinner is takeout, which they take back to their hotel room so as not to spend more time in public than they have to. Steve sets the bag down on the table and nudges Tony toward the bathroom, where the light is better; they can wait a couple minutes before they eat for Steve to check him over, make sure he's healing okay.

"Let me look at you first," Steve insists, and he's pulling Tony's sweatshirt off, tugging his shirt over his head as he pushes Tony back towards the bathroom. He eases the chestplate off with practiced hands and sets it down; he's spent enough time getting Tony out of his ruined armor that he knows where all the emergency catches are now. No blood on the gauze from these wounds, he thinks. Tony's okay. Tony's all right. 

It doesn't calmed the panicked fluttering of his heart, the terror that's lived in him since he heard about the attempt on Tony's life. He needs Tony to be okay.

Tony raises an eyebrow at him as Steve pushes him backwards into the bathroom, flips on the light, and starts to unwrap the bandages from around his arm. "You can't wait to get your hands all over me, can you?" Tony asks. He's smiling broadly.

It's a joke.

Because it's a joke, the proper response is acquiescence. The proper response is _you know it_ , a smile, a laugh. The proper response is the actual truth of what Steve feels, but in a way that means it absolutely isn't. It's not fair.

But he has to say something, otherwise Tony will figure everything out. Tony's a genius.

"I'm concerned about you," Steve says, which makes him sound humorless and dull and he knows it, but it's not like it isn't true either. He is concerned about Tony. He just also happens to want to put his hands all over Tony.

Tony is still smiling, and Steve relaxes; he doesn't know. "You always are," Tony says, lightly.

The wound on Tony's shoulder is healing nicely and Steve dutifully rebandages it and moves on, beginning to unwind the mass of gauze from around Tony's chest. He know Tony doesn't want him touching him here, and he hates that he likes it. Tony hates it, so he shouldn't want it.

He's making this as impersonal as possible, he tells himself, as he pulls away the last of the gauze, as he examines the healing wound over Tony's heart, destined to be another scar atop scars. He knows Tony's self-conscious, but he also knows that to him, Tony is beautiful. Tony is here and Tony is alive, and Tony has survived everything.

He can't stop himself from entertaining the fantasy: if he were Tony's lover, he'd do his goddamn best to show Tony how gorgeous he was, how handsome he was, how none of his scars mattered. He wants Tony to see himself like Steve sees him, like he's always seen him. He wishes he could give that to Tony.

Lost in his reverie, he reaches out and touches Tony. His hand splays lightly across Tony's bruised ribs and his thumb smooths the edges of the scars, a gentle caress. He doesn't even realize he's done it until it's too late, and he moves to take his hand back, quickly, before Tony can be too offended by his mistake--

Tony makes a small, soft noise in the back of his throat, and Steve glances up and meets Tony's gaze. Even in the bright light, Tony's eyes are a little too dark. His lips are parted. (His hair is ridiculous, but Steve can forgive that.)

"Did I hurt you?" Steve asks, simultaneously aware that the noise Tony made didn't actually sound like he was in pain and that, for some reason, he hasn't been able to bring himself to move his hand. 

They're still standing here, pressed against the bathroom counter, and Steve's hand is on Tony's chest and he's out of excuses.

Tony's throat works as he swallows. "No," he says, and there's a low, gravelly note in his voice that Steve can't identify at all. "No, you're not hurting me at all."

Tony's gaze flicks down to his mouth and up again, and suddenly Steve is aware of how close they are. He's aware of Tony's body -- not in the way he's been aware of it lately, as something fragile, precious, easily broken, but as something strong, resilient, a focus for all his desires. Tony may not be superhuman, but he has power and presence. He's not that much smaller than Steve. He's only a little shorter. Steve would just have to tilt his head, and they could be kissing--

He can't be the only one, can he? The tension presses on him like a physical weight. He breathes in, heady, and everything is Tony. Is he the only one who feels this way? Why isn't Tony saying anything, if he is?

Tony would say something if he wanted him. It has to be just him. Steve can't push this any further.

He takes another breath and tries to compose himself. "Your chest seems fine to me," he says. "It's not hot to the touch. No sign of infection."

There, that even sounds like a plausible reason someone might have their hands all over Tony.

Tony swallows hard. "Uh," he says. "That's good. I'm glad."

Steve fetches more gauze and bandages, and carefully wraps Tony back up. He keeps his touch strictly professional, this time.

There's only one more wound left. Steve nods in the direction of Tony's leg. "Going to let me see your thigh?"

Reluctance flashes in Tony's eyes, and Steve wonders why. But then Tony shrugs, half-smiles, and silently tucks his thumbs inside the waistband of his jeans. Steve crouches down so he can get a better look, as Tony unbuttons his fly. Tony's using both hands easily now, and, hey, that's a good sign for the condition of his shoulder--

Then Tony pushes his jeans down, and Steve forgets all other concerns. Tony's cock is outlined in his tight boxer-briefs, at least half-hard, and Steve remembers the sound Tony made that didn't sound like pain, and, oh, God, Tony is hard because _Steve touched him_.

Steve's cock throbs in his pants, an echo of arousal, and he doesn't dare look up.

They can't talk about this. Not even as a joke. There's no way to talk about this that would be free of Steve's actual feelings.

He has to stay calm, stay professional. What would a doctor do in this situation? He just needs to do what he told Tony he'd do. He needs to check the wound on Tony's thigh and not make an issue of it.

His hands are shaking as he unwraps the bandages.

Tony doesn't say anything, thank God.

"It looks fine," Steve announces. The words are too loud, too obvious, and, God, Tony's going to know--

But Tony still doesn't say anything.

Steve wraps his thigh up again, and stands up. Tony pulls his jeans up like nothing has happened. His erection has mostly ebbed away, anyway.

"Thanks," Tony says, with a soft smile. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," Steve says.

Nothing has happened. Nothing's going to happen.

It has to be just him, he tells himself. Tony must not feel the same way.

But he knows, too, that the next time he's got any privacy he's not going to be able to stop thinking about the way Tony looked at him, the noise he made, his feverish imaginings of how Tony would look if he took everything off--

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But he's only a man, and he's loved Tony for so long, and there's only so much of this he can take. But that's all that's going to come of it.

It's all right. He won't tell him. Tony's never going to know.

* * *

Tony does, in fact, look a little better after they get some food into him. He's less pale, more animated, and his smiles are more and more frequent, as they sit at the little table in the room and demolish dinner together. Steve's just glad he has enough money from the team to keep them fed until this is all sorted out -- he hopes so, anyway.

But Tony is still obviously under the weather, because it's early into the evening when he levers himself up out of the chair unsteadily and heads toward the bed. Steve automatically gets up to help him, and Tony leans on him as together they wobble across the room and sit down on the edge of the bed.

Steve glances over at Tony and thinks about kissing him, bearing him down to the mattress, kissing him more. He'd be gentle. Tony's still hurt. He wouldn't even ask for more than kissing. He'd respect whatever Tony wanted.

Of course, Tony doesn't want him at all. In any way.

"So," Steve says, "what's on the agenda for tomorrow? Same as today?"

"Same as today," Tony confirms.

And then he reaches out, slowly, tentatively, and sets two fingers to the back of Steve's hand. Steve just barely remembers to keep breathing.

"Yes?" Steve asks, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word.

Tony's fingers are stroking across the back of his hand. "It's nothing, really," Tony says, and he glances away. "I just-- I just wanted to thank you for being here. For doing all this for me."

Oh. Steve breathes out. That's all. Tony doesn't... want anything from him. "It's not a big deal, Tony. You're my friend. You know that."

"I know." Tony's mouth twists. "I'm just saying, friendship doesn't usually mean that someone's willing to face federal charges. In my experience."

Steve tries to focus on anything other than Tony's fingers on his skin, stroking him slowly and softly. "Well," Steve manages to say, "you're my very good friend."

Tony glances at him, and there's a flash of sadness in his eyes, quickly covered as he smiles. "I figured," he murmurs. "Thank you."

And then Tony's lifting his hand away, moving back to lie on the bed, and the moment -- whatever it was -- is broken. Steve helps him pull the covers up.

"Sleep well," Steve says, and Tony smiles, nods, and shuts his eyes.

They're friends, Steve tells himself. This should be enough for him. This should make him happy.

* * *

The second day of searching isn't any more fruitful than the first. They walk the streets once again, with Tony covertly glancing at his tracker as often as he can. Tony still doesn't look his best, health-wise; he's pausing more than he ought to be, getting winded too fast, and Steve knows that if there were any justice in the world Tony would be in a hospital, recovering. He wishes he could leave Tony in the hotel room while he goes out and searches -- but the way Tony explained it, the tracker needs to be in range of the suit chestplate to function, and the chestplate won't fit Steve.

So Tony has to be here, but that doesn't mean that Steve has to like it.

At least if they'd found something, Steve could have told himself that maybe Tony pushing himself to his limits was worth it -- but they haven't. It's just hurting him.

Tony pauses again and leans against a wall. His head tips back against one of those damn KCl flyers. The chestplate means that Steve can't exactly see his chest heaving, but his nostrils flare as he takes huge breaths. Steve steps to one side to stand next to him, angling himself so that his shadow will block out the worst of the afternoon sun for Tony.

"Hey," Steve says. "You doing okay?"

Tony's chin jerks in a nod. Steve doesn't even see why Tony's trying to lie to him when it's this obvious that he's unwell.

"Because we can take a break, if you want," Steve tries. "We can get you some water--"

Tony shakes his head. "I'm okay. I want to finish this block. Maybe the next one. We have to find him." His gaze is imploring, urgent.

"I know," Steve says. He sighs. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

On the next block over, Steve becomes aware that they're being followed. An unmarked Ford Crown Victoria has been keeping pace with them as they walk, lagging a little behind, and Steve knows they're being watched. He doesn't know if it's the NYPD, the FBI, or SHIELD -- but somebody in that car is finding them some variety of suspicious.

Tension coils in Steve's muscles even as he tells himself that whoever it is can't know for sure that it's them -- because if they thought it was them, they'd be after them in an instant.

"Tony," Steve says, quietly. "That car."

"I see it," Tony returns, just as quietly. "Block their line of sight on me for a second, would you?"

Steve obligingly drops back to shield Tony. Tony stops walking, and he pulls the tracker out of his pocket just long enough to hit a different button entirely, and then he mouths an obscenity.

"What is it?" Steve asks.

"Their radio traffic is encrypted," Tony murmurs, "but it's running on the frequencies that the FBI and SHIELD use for their joint ops. They're looking for us."

Tony's shaking, Steve realizes.

"It's okay," Steve says, even though it isn't, really, but God, he has to say something. "It's going to be okay. They don't know it's us. We don't look like ourselves. They don't even know you're with me."

He watches, then, as Tony does the exact wrong thing: he looks at their pursuers. "They've parked," Tony says. "The driver's rolling his window down. White guy, sunglasses, the kind of terrible suit a federal agent wears. Oh, shit, he sees us. He looked at us, Steve, oh, Jesus--"

Tony's vibrating with nerves like he's about to break apart. His eyes are wide, his face drained of color. He looks like he wants to fly, but he can't fly, so he'll take running instead.

"Don't run," Steve says, in an undertone. "You run, Tony, and they'll come after you for sure--"

"They're going to find us," Tony retorts. "They're going to find us, and they're going to arrest us--"

He can only think of one way out of this. He grabs Tony by the arm and pulls him around the corner to the entrance of an alley. The guy in the Crown Vic can still see them -- as Steve intends -- but it's a spot that someone who didn't think they were being watched would pick if they wanted to be discreet.

"Kiss me," Steve blurts out.

Tony's face somehow goes even paler, and Steve thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, but it's too late.

"What?"

"Kiss me," Steve repeats. "Look, they think we're up to something. The only way to get them to go away is to give them an idea of something we're up to, something they don't think Iron Man and Captain America would be up to, and they're not going to look any more closely than that."

Tony breathes out, and the terror in his eyes is replaced with a flicker of sadness -- and then a dark, knowing desire that makes arousal run through Steve's body.

Then Tony shoves him back against the brickwork and their lips meet.

He'd expected Tony to be reluctant. He'd expected Tony to be hesitant. Tony is anything but. He's pressing Steve up against the wall -- God -- like he wants to hold him up and fuck him. The kiss is desperate, hungry, ravenous. His tongue slides into Steve's mouth and his thigh slides between Steve's legs and the world is spinning. There's nothing else but Tony. Need throbs and pulses within Steve's body, an urgent drumbeat. Tony is kissing him like he's been planning for years how to take Steve apart, and this is his one chance. Steve groans against Tony's lips and kisses back for all he's worth.

Gasping for breath, Tony breaks the kiss, and Steve ought to be satisfied now by the plausibility -- hell, if he were thinking with something other than his cock, he'd stop and make sure Tony was feeling okay -- but all he can do is lean in again.

This kiss is softer, slower, more tender. One of Steve's hands is on the unyielding metal of the backplate, but his other hand is on Tony's hip, and when Steve licks into Tony's mouth, Tony moans against his lips and he leans into Steve like he wants to fall apart in Steve's arms. The bottom of the chestplate bumps against Steve's stomach, and Steve can tell that while Tony isn't hard enough to pound nails, like he is, his body is making a respectable showing at all the excitement.

Finally Tony pulls back and tips his forehead against Steve's shoulder. He breathes out; his breath hitches and catches. He smells like a strange combination of arousal, fear-sweat, and this morning's coffee.

"My God, Steve," Tony whispers. 

Steve dares to glance over at their pursuer. The driver of the Crown Vic rolls his window up, pulls out of the parking space, moves on.

They made it. They're safe, for now.

Tony steps back unsteadily; Steve sees him glance over and note the absence of the feds. He can practically see Tony's pulse fluttering in his throat, too fast. At least he doesn't have to worry that Tony's going to have a heart attack anymore. He hopes he doesn't have to worry about that, at least.

"Well," Tony says. "Uh." This is when Steve realizes that he's reduced Tony Stark, genius, to incoherence. Just by kissing him.

"Maybe we should go back to the hotel for a bit?" Steve suggests. "Seems like things are getting a little more exciting out here than anyone expected."

He meant the FBI, but it occurs to him after he said it that it could apply just as easily to the kissing.

"Yeah," Tony says, sounding both fervent and awkward at the same time. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

Tony isn't meeting his eyes. Tony's mouth is bright red, wet from Steve's lips. With that and the blond hair, with the dazed look in his eyes, he hardly looks like himself. Steve wonders how he looks to Tony.

He wonders if he's ruined everything. He wonders if Tony will let him kiss him again. For the life of him, he doesn't know which is more likely.

* * *

The hotel room door closes behind them with heavy finality. Steve is put in mind of the Combat Simulation Room. They're not enemies, and there's no fight here, but for the life of him Steve doesn't know if he's just ruined one of his most meaningful and lasting friendships for the sake of a kiss. Tony has to know how he feels now. Tony's not stupid, and he knows Steve is a terrible liar, and he knows Steve wouldn't kiss him like that unless he meant it.

Fear and dread curl in Steve's stomach, pound against his ribs like they're trying to beat his way out of his chest from the inside. Steve doesn't spend a lot of time feeling fear, and it sure as hell doesn't usually feel like this. He's sick inside. It's miserable. Tony knows everything.

Tony hasn't so much as looked at him since they kissed.

Tony is standing next to the bed; he unzips his sweatshirt and unbuttons the shirt beneath it to expose the red-gold gleam of the chestplate. The motion is practiced, and Steve thinks about the years when nobody knew Tony was Iron Man, when he needed the chestplate to live. He thinks about Tony coming home alone just like this, stripping down to his secret identity. The mask under the man.

The difference, of course, is that Tony isn't alone now.

Unless he wants to be. Steve hopes like hell he doesn't want to be. But it's Tony's decision. It always was.

Dropping his shirts on the bed, Tony reaches up with his uninjured arm to the release latches of the chestplate, unhooking one and then the other. He glances up at Steve, then, and his gaze is mild, easy, unburdened. 

"I assume you want to check me over?" Tony asks. He says it so simply. Looking at him, Steve wouldn't know he was the same man who shoved him up against the side of a building and kissed him until he could barely remember his own name.

Oh. This is the other option, Steve realizes. The one where they don't talk about it. The one where they pretend that what they did has nothing to do with how they feel. The one where they go on with their lives as normal, as if it never happened, as if anything could be normal now that he knows what Tony's lips feel like against his.

But Tony is right about one thing: Steve still wants to check him over. No matter what happens from here on out, Steve still cares about Tony's welfare, and he needs to make sure that Tony is still doing okay.

"Yeah," Steve says. His voice is unsteady in his ears. He doesn't know how Tony is so calm. "Yeah, that would be good."

Very conscious of his movements, he steps closer to Tony, helps him ease the chestplate off and then the backplate, helps him set them both on the bed. Tony is bare-chested underneath, save for the bandages he's swathed in. There's no blood on the gauze on any of the visible wounds. A good sign. Steve should still check, though.

He's holding his hands out, an inch from Tony's skin. Everything feels -- not _wrong_ , exactly, but fraught. Like he doesn't know where he can touch Tony, like he doesn't know if this is okay now, like everything just means too much at once.

To brace himself, he sets one hand against Tony's side, his fingers curving around, bracketing Tony's ribs.

Tony makes a very quiet noise, barely more than a catch of breath, and when Steve looks up, Tony's eyes are wide and solemn and dark, and he can't, he can't do this, he can't live like this, pretending nothing happened.

"So." Steve's voice is hoarse. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Tony's throat works. His smile is wan. "That depends on what you want to say about it."

His voice is just as controlled as before. He's going to a lot of effort to hide how he feels. Steve knows that's one of the ways Tony reacts when he's overwhelmed. But under Steve's fingertips, Tony is trembling, and that's what Tony doesn't want him to know: he's scared.

Steve doesn't want Tony to be scared of him. He hopes to God he's doing the right thing. But he has to say something. He has to tell Tony the truth. That's how he's always lived his life. He owes Tony that.

"I'd be up for more." Steve licks his lips and tries to summon a smile. "That's-- that what I want to say about it. I'm hoping that's something you want to hear about it."

God, it feels like he's never been this nervous in his life. He's sweating. His stomach clenches.

And then Tony smiles, wide and amazed. He looks like he thinks he's dreaming. Like he's always wanted this.

"Oh," Tony breathes. "That was definitely what I wanted to hear."

"Can I kiss you again?" Steve asks. 

The words feel clumsy when he says them; he knows he's not Tony, suave and sophisticated. But Tony doesn't seem to care. Tony's eyes are shining bright and eager, and Steve should be responsible and tend to Tony's injuries -- but Tony lays his hand on the nape of Steve's neck and draws him close and all he can think about is Tony's mouth--

This kiss, like the last one, is gentle and yearning. Tony doesn't push him, doesn't press him. It's sweet and perfect and Steve could kiss him for days and never stop. It seems to last forever, and that's fine by Steve; as soon as it ends, he just wants more of it.

But Tony is grimacing, a pained face, and Steve wonders if Tony is in actual physical distress for a good half-second until Tony steps back, face flushed, gaze fixed on the floor.

"I'm sorry," Tony mumbles. "I'm not-- I'm not in the best shape right now-- I don't think I can--"

He gestures awkwardly downward, and that's when Steve figures out the problem -- or rather, what Tony thinks is a problem. Tony isn't hard.

Steve is, but that's not really a surprise; one of the little-known side effects of the serum amplifying sensitivity is his ability to get an erection with very little effort, often whether he wants to or not. Mostly it's been very inconvenient in his professional life. He's not planning to do anything about it right now, anyway. They're not exactly ready for that, are they? He can wait.

"I mean," Tony continues, growing redder, "I know when you kissed me before, I was-- and yesterday-- but that's about as hard as I can get, right now-- oh God-- I just don't think I can do it--"

He's tripping over his words, almost like he's afraid of what Steve's response will be. Like he honestly thinks that this is the only thing Steve wants from him, the only thing he's good for, and if he can't immediately provide sexual gratification Steve's going to take all the affection away.

This doesn't feel personal. It's not because it's Steve. It feels like an old pattern, something someone taught Tony to expect, and Steve breathes out and tries not to think about finding everyone Tony ever dated and giving them what-for.

"Tony, it's okay," Steve tries to say, but he doesn't think Tony hears him.

"I could blow you," Tony offers, like this is supposed to be some kind of compromise, like this is what he thinks Steve wants, like the thought of Tony with severe physical injuries on his knees servicing him, heedless of his own pain, doesn't make him feel visceral horror.

"Tony, no," Steve says, a little more sharply than he means to, but the idea that Tony would volunteer that without thinking -- that someone could ever have asked him to -- makes his stomach churn. "That's not what I want."

Tony's head snaps up. He bites his lip. "I can't read your mind," Tony says. "All I know is that you liked kissing me. Maybe you could tell me what you do want? I can-- I can do anything you want--"

Aghast, Steve stares at him. "Tony, do you honestly think that the only thing I want from you is sex?"

Tony looks at him like he thinks the obvious answer is _yes_ , but he manages not to actually say it. He licks his lips. Okay, so Steve has to be clearer.

"I'm in love with you," Steve says. It's dizzying and a little frightening to say it, just like that, after so many years. "I've been in love with you for a long time. I don't need you to do anything to make me happy." He smiles an unsteady smile. "If you want to be with me, that's enough."

He doesn't know what Tony wants. If Tony wants this. Hell, maybe Tony just wants sex.

But then Tony smiles at him, small and tremulous, and he leans in and presses a kiss to Steve's mouth, a feather-light brush of his lips. It feels like a promise. He reaches out, sliding two shaking fingers over Steve's jawline, like he can't believe he's allowed to do this.

"The same goes for me," Tony murmurs. "I-- I'm in love with you too. Have been for years."

Steve smiles at him. "I can't believe this is happening," he murmurs. It seems unreal. Tony loves him. "I never thought I had a chance with you. I thought you and Ms. Fujikawa were so serious about each other, you know?"

"I could have said the same thing about you and Sharon, once upon a time," Tony points out. "That sure kept me from ever making a move." He sighs. "Yeah, me and Ru, we were serious. But it wasn't ever going to work out for us in the long run, you know? Eventually we had to accept that." 

Yeah, Steve knows all about that one. That was him and Sharon, for years. "I know how that goes."

There's a hint of sadness in Tony's eyes, and Steve wonders if Tony's already worrying that the two of them won't work out. Probably.

"Hey," Steve says, softly, and he reaches out and strokes Tony's hair. It's dry and not very pleasant to touch, but Tony smiles anyway. "Don't get all wrapped up in your what-ifs, futurist. We've been good for each other for ten whole years. Pretty sure we're still going to be good for each other. I think it's worth a try if you do."

Tony laughs a little, a stunned noise. "God, I don't even know if we're going to make it out of this alive, but I-- yeah, I'd like to try. Anything you want, anything I can give you, you can have it, it's yours."

"I wouldn't say no to some cuddling," Steve admits, and Tony promptly wraps his arms around him like he's been waiting his entire life to do that. "We can figure out the rest when this is all over."

Still smiling, Tony tucks his face into Steve's neck. "You're optimistic, old man."

"We're going to make it," Steve says. "We can't lose when we've got each other."

* * *

They spend the rest of the evening wrapped up in each other.

Steve checks over Tony's injuries carefully, as professionally as he can. If it's going to frustrate Tony that he can't do anything about it, getting him riled up would just be cruel, and Steve doesn't want to do that. He'll have plenty of time to make it up to him later.

Tony's healing well enough, and after Steve feeds him -- more takeout, though he hates to be away from Tony for long enough even to get food -- he looks even healthier. Steve still doesn't want to see him go up against the Mandarin, but he supposes he doesn't have any choice about that. He knows he gets protective about people he loves. It's hard to resist, especially when Tony right now really does need someone taking care of him.

_He makes his own choices_ , Steve reminds himself. _You can't treat him any differently because there are feelings involved now_.

Maybe if he says that to himself enough, this time it will stick. It sure hadn't when he was with Sharon.

Soon enough, it's bedtime; Tony is still expending most of his energy on healing, and he needs his sleep. He probably needs more sleep than he's getting. Tony slides under the covers of the bed, but as Steve steps back to go sleep in the chair for the night, Tony looks at him with a sad longing in his eyes. He brushes bleached-blond hair out of his face, the usual nervous tic, and he doesn't move to pull the covers up.

"Tony?" Steve asks. "You all right there?"

Tony glances away and back again. "I don't mean to be a tease, and you can say no, but I was just thinking -- I know there's not really a lot of room, but maybe you'd like to share the bed with me?" His voice rises a little too high on the question. "Just for sleeping, I mean," he adds, hastily.

Steve thinks about holding Tony close all night. "I'd love to," he says.

Sure, the thought of being near Tony is making heat rush through his body; now that he knows there's a chance of them acting on it someday, he's becoming more and more... excited... at the idea. And, yeah, it's frustrating -- but he can wait.

It turns out there definitely isn't a lot of room in the bed, and Tony ends up basically lying on top of him, using him as a pillow. This does have certain consequences.

"Wow," Tony says, and Steve makes an involuntary strangled half-moan as Tony's body slides over his hips. He just barely manages not to rock up against him. "Somebody here really likes naptime, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Steve says, embarrassed. "It's just-- you're very-- you're right here--"

"I'm not sorry," Tony says. "I am immensely flattered." He pauses. "The offer's still open, if you want me to--"

"No," Steve says, stiffly, even though he would really like the answer to be _yes_ and _please_ and _right now_. Unfulfilled desire races through him. "I can wait. I want to wait for you."

Tony drops his forehead against Steve's shoulder. "You're killing me here, Cap. Or you. Maybe both of us." But then he smiles. "I'm glad we have this, though. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, but at least we have this. No matter what, at least we finally know, you know?"

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "That's worth a lot to me."

"Me too," Tony murmurs. He relaxes and nestles into Steve's arms, shutting his eyes. He's out like a light.

Steve smiles down at Tony and considers the state of his life. He's a fugitive from justice. Rather than avoiding danger, he's in the middle of a hunt for the Mandarin. If SHIELD or the FBI catches him, they'll probably throw him in the Raft for helping Tony.

But Tony loves him back, and right now he can't bring himself to care about anything else.

* * *

Once again, Steve is awake first. Tony hasn't moved much in the night; he's still in Steve's arms, sleeping peacefully. The bruising on his face doesn't seem to have gotten much better over the past few days. The other wounds aren't infected, but he's going to rip himself open if he tries to fight like that. Steve knows he really, really needs medical care -- and unfortunately, he doesn't look likely to get it anytime soon.

He just wants to hold Tony close, like this, and keep him safe forever. And it's getting harder and harder to remember that just because they have feelings for each other still doesn't mean he has the right to tell Tony what to do. Tony may be more fragile than ever, but he still gets to make his own choices.

Steve exhales hard. He just has to trust Tony. Tony has this.

And then Tony opens his eyes, blinking sleepily at him.

"Hey," Tony says, and he smiles a sweet, sweet smile. "Do I get a good-morning kiss?"

A fuzzy warmth lights up Steve's chest, Steve doesn't see why anyone who ever dated Tony didn't immediately want to hold onto him.

"Absolutely," Steve says, and he pushes himself up and slides Tony closer until their mouths meet.

He could get used to this, he thinks, as Tony kisses him, slow and tender and lingering.

"Right," Tony says. He rolls very carefully off Steve, and pushes himself upright, balancing himself precariously until he gets both feet on the floor. Steve can't see his face, but he's already hanging his head. "Time for another day of unproductive searching, I guess."

Steve's not usually one for pessimism, but he understands the feeling. It's been days and they've had no luck. "I know what you mean," he agrees. "Shame we aren't looking for any of those damn KCl posters. We've seen, what, hundreds of those?"

"Those _what_ posters?"

Tony's head whips around. His gaze is bright, intent, and Steve knows him well enough to know what he looks like when he's having an idea. This is clearly one of those times, but Steve has no clue what's going on.

"KCl," Steve repeats, confused. "Haven't you seen them? They've been pasted up all over the place. They just say KCl and a phone number. I figured that it was, you know, one of those bands all the kids are listening to now."

Tony shakes his head. "I-- honestly, I haven't really been able to focus very well lately. I haven't noticed much of anything other than what's on the tracker and whether anyone's following us. But," he adds, meeting Steve's eyes, "it sure as hell isn't a band."

"It's not?"

"KCl is the chemical symbol for potassium chloride," Tony says, smiling, bright-eyed, in the grip of genius. "Among other things, it's used in lethal injections. Causes cardiac arrest." Steve's not exactly seeing how that doesn't make it a good name for a band these days, but Tony continues on. "And it's what that nurse at the hospital tried to poison me with."

"Jesus." Steve's gut roils at the thought of Tony poisoned, Tony dying. "Are you-- are you--"

"I'm all right," Tony says, softly. "That actually wasn't one of the things that hurt me." His hand comes up; his fingers tap his sternum, where the charging port for his artificial heart is. "The heart filters most poisons. And, anyway, it's awfully hard to chemically induce cardiac arrest if your heart is entirely mechanical. I wasn't ever in danger. Not from that." He leans forward. He grips Steve's hand. "It's not a band. It's a _message_. For me."

"You're sure?" It seems like it could still be a coincidence, but he trusts Tony. He has to trust Tony. And if Tony thinks it's a message, then it must be one.

Tony nods. And then he stands up, heads over to his armor, and retrieves one of the gauntlets. He pries open a panel on the arm to reveal something that looks like a keypad, into which he plugs the cord from the hotel phone; Steve supposes that's how Tony managed to call him for help so no one could trace it. And then Tony looks up at him and raises his eyebrows. "What's the number?"

Just because it's a message from the Mandarin doesn't mean they should take him up on it. "How do you know it's not a trap?"

Tony shrugs. "I don't." He smiles half a smile. "But it's the best lead we've got, and they can't do anything to me over the phone. I promise they can't trace the call."

"Okay," Steve says. "555-1872."

Tony lifts the receiver to his ear, punches in the number, and waits. Steve can't hear whoever is on the other end, but someone must pick up, because Tony starts talking.

"Hi," Tony says. He sounds calm, collected, confident, authoritative. Steve hears him talk like this in TV interviews, sometimes, when he's talking business, when he needs to work the room, to let everyone know that he's in charge here. "I'm calling about your posters. I believe you have a message for me, and I'm quite curious to hear more about it. My name is Tony Stark."

There's a pause. "Ah," Tony says. He raises his eyebrows. "That's very interesting. Mmm-hmm. Yes, yes, I think we can come to an agreement." There's another pause. "All right. Two hours. I'll see you there."

He hangs up.

"That was more polite than I expected the Mandarin to be," Steve observes.

"It's not the Mandarin," Tony tells him. "It's one of the Mandarin's lackeys. Name of Yu. It seems he'd like to sell out his boss."

"What's his asking price?"

Tony smiles crookedly. "Twenty mil."

The cost of bribery has sure gone up since Steve was a kid. He whistles. "And you're going to trust him? Do you even have that kind of money right now?"

"No, and no," Tony says, with a grin. "Not with my accounts frozen. But I'm going to see how far I can get with him for free." He unplugs the phone from the gauntlet and picks up his case of tools, selecting one of the screwdrivers. "We've got two hours until the meeting. I'm going to make... well, it's kind of a taser. You'll see."

Steve breathes out hard, and suddenly he can see the future, the way Tony does, a thousand possibilities narrowing down to one, and it's terrible: Tony going after this man Yu, getting the Mandarin's location from him. Facing him down. Dying. Tony's in no shape for combat, but it's becoming clearer and clearer that this is where this is headed. And Steve's not here to watch Tony die.

He knows he didn't want to interfere. He still doesn't want to, not really. But if the only other option is Tony's death, then he has to say something.

Trying not to panic, he lays a hand on Tony's arm. "Let me go instead."

Tony squints at him. "I can't," he says. "Yu's expecting to meet me. He's not going to want to deal with you."

"Then find out from him where the Mandarin is and let me go after him." Steve's throat is raw, and he's forcing back tears. "Tony, you're not in any shape to fight him, and you know it. I am. I can fight. The Mandarin needs to be taken down? Fine. Then let me do it. I'll do anything for you. You know I will."

There's silence, then. Tony sets down the screwdriver, and he's blinking back tears of his own. He cups Steve's palm with his hand. "I know," he says, softly. "I know you will. And if there were any way for you to fight him, I'd let you." A ripple of pain passes over his face. "And I know that's not very heroic of me, but I also know exactly what shape I'm in. If I had a choice, I'd let you. I swear I would."

God, if Tony is admitting to it, he must be in even worse condition than he looks like he is. "You have a choice," Steve says. "Let me help you. Let me do this for you. Please."

But Tony shakes his head. "I know how you fight, and the Mandarin, Steve-- he's not someone you can just punch. Physical force isn't going to get you anywhere. Not against the rings. It's not just elemental manipulation, fire and ice and all that. He manipulates all matter. He can poison the air. He can encase you in concrete. One of the rings gives him psionic powers. He can control your mind."

"I do a pretty good job resisting mind control, and I can hold my breath for a hell of a long time if he tries poison gas," Steve says, stubbornly. "I'm not afraid--"

"It doesn't matter whether you're afraid or not." Tony's voice is soft but determined. "What I'm telling you is that, in my considered opinion as an Avenger, you're not going to be able to take him down." Tony licks his lips.

Steve knows he doesn't take criticism well. He hates being told he can't do something. He always has. Anger and frustration rise within him. "And you think you can? In the shape you're in?" The words snap out of him, and God, he loves Tony, he doesn't want to be upset with Tony, but he's just so _scared_ for him--

"I think I can, yeah." Tony doesn't take the bait, doesn't rise to meet his anger. "I've learned a few things since the last time I fought him. I have an energy field I can put up. And the rings cause electrostatic reactions with each other when he uses them. I can deploy magnetic pulses as a countermeasure."

Tony's right. Steve can't do any of those things. As much as Steve hates it, Tony has to go. Steve can't fight the Mandarin for him.

"I know you're worried about me." Tony strokes Steve's cheek, gently. Steve feels his jaw unclench. "It's a very kind offer. But I'd just be worried about _you_ if you fought him, don't you see? It has to be me. I can do this, Steve. Trust me."

Sighing, Steve smiles. "I trust you. I do."

Tony smiles right back. "Okay. Then let's do this."

* * *

Yu is a heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit, with a nose that looks like it's been broken at least once. He's parked his late-model sedan -- black, tinted windows, the sort of car that would scream _organized crime_ if this were a movie -- to block the alley, but even so Yu glances up and down the garbage-strewn alley like he thinks he's being followed, before turning a disapproving glare on Steve, a glare that he then redirects to Tony.

Steve glances down surreptitiously at himself. He's wearing his uniform under his street clothes, and he hopes Yu hasn't noticed. Yu didn't look at him with any hint of recognition in his eyes, so that's a good sign. Maybe the dye job is actually fooling someone.

"I thought I told you to come alone." There's a stern sort of disgust in Yu's voice, like he thinks he's the one dictating terms here.

Tony shrugs a calculatedly unconcerned shrug, barely looking in Steve's direction. Given how Tony was looking at him just this morning, Steve is impressed by Tony's acting ability. "He's my bodyguard. I've had quite a week, and my last bodyguard is still in a coma because of you, so you'll forgive me for taking additional precautions."

Yu's eyes narrow. "I also thought I told you not to wear your fancy suit of armor."

The top of the chestplate, Steve observes, is just barely visible above the collar of Tony's shirt.

"I'm recovering from my injuries." Tony's voice is cold. "I'm not wearing the full suit. Just the chestplate. It's keeping me upright. If you want your money, it's in your best interests if I don't cough up a lung and keel over before we get to that part, hmm?"

Yu eyes Steve again. "Is that my money your bodyguard is carrying?"

Steve glances down at himself again. One of his briefcases has the rest of Tony's armor. The other one has his shield. Yu's going to be in for a hell of a surprise if he insists on making Steve open the cases.

Tony laughs. "You'll find out." His smile is anything but pleasant. "We're nowhere near the part of the discussion that involves money. This is the part of the discussion where we establish our bona fides, Mr. Yu. That's Latin for _good faith_. And I think you'll find that lately I'm not very trusting." He rips a KCl poster off the wall next to him and holds it up. "Potassium chloride. The substance your nurse tried to poison me with. I recognized it. But how can I be sure that the people you're betraying won't also get the reference?"

Unfazed, Yu sneers. "I was the one who hired Senka Grdic. They wouldn't even recognize _her_ , much less the abbreviation for the exact substance she put in your IV." His gaze goes from Tony to the poster and back. "I knew you'd get the reference, but to anyone else it's just another band poster."

Steve will give the guy that -- that was exactly what he'd assumed, after all.

He watches Tony mull this over, crumpling the poster and dropping it. Tony's good, all right; he's not giving anything away to Yu, but Steve isn't Yu and Steve has played a whole lot of poker with Tony. He knows what Tony looks like when he believes something, even if he's trying not to. Tony's decided that it's worth trusting Yu this far.

"Okay," Tony says, slowly. "So you're sincere. But why the hell are you selling out the Mandarin?"

Yu snorts. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Tony retorts. He scratches his scalp. He's not looking very good. He's sweating again. He looks more than a little green. Nauseated, probably.

"It's a family thing," Yu says. "I only took the gig in the first place because I wanted to meet the guy. Come as close as I could to fulfilling my dad's big boneheaded dream." He lifts an explanatory hand. "See, _my_ father worked for _his_ father, and all his life, that's all he wanted. To lay eyes on the Mandarin." He shrugs. "But after Senka failed to kill you... the Mandarin's head lackey, Po, tells me my chances of a face-to-face with Temugin are zero."

Tony's brow wrinkles in honest confusion. "I don't buy the logic. You're not your father. Temugin isn't _his_ father."

"Logic's got jack to do with it," Yu says. "You never grew up with Chinese parents. My people invented intergenerational guilt." He shrugs. "But you're right. It's stupid. I was put in a situation where I was begging. That's untenable. So screw loyalty." He smiles like a shark, all teeth. "I'll give you Temugin's whereabouts. Corroborating evidence. Fork over my twenty million, and I'll do everything but whip it up into a PowerPoint presentation."

Steve shifts his weight, trying not to glance warily at Tony. He wishes he'd brought Tony's sunglasses. This guy's not giving away the Mandarin's location for free, and pretty soon it's going to be apparent to him that Tony doesn't have the money. They're going to be backed in a corner. It's like that movie Tony showed him when he was fresh out of the ice, that Star Wars one: the walls are closing in.

But their saving grace is that Yu, at least, hasn't figured that out yet. 

"Here's a free taste." Yu smirks. "Know where we got your beam torpedo schematics? On a surplus hard drive the Pentagon failed to wipe. All that blood and misery because some flunky half-assed a simple task."

Tony's looking even greener, and privately Steve agrees with him. It's hard to stand here and listen to a guy brag about killing a hundred people. Steve's fingers itch with the need to move, to fight back, to do something.

"I'm getting nauseated," Tony says. "So one more question and let's wrap this up. Temugin's North Korean infiltrator...?"

"Jang," Yu says, promptly. "What a whackjob. I think he was hypnotized or something."

Tony nods. "This Jang... when it looked even slightly likely that he'd talk, he exploded. Literally. Had an incendiary bomb surgically implanted in his head."

Yu taps the side of his head. "See? I'm justified in distancing myself from these old-school loons. Po wanted me to get a transmitter installed in my damn skull, but I told him hell no. Not for what you guys pay."

Steve watches as Tony steps in. He knows what Tony's going for, so he isn't surprised when Tony's eyes widen in feigned shock. "That's weird," Tony says. "I could have sworn you knew, because it's not going off. I just figured you had some way of blocking the signal."

"What?" Yu yelps.

Tony lets his eyes go wider. "You mean you didn't know? Geez. I've got a thermal imager in my contact lenses and it's telling me there's a bomb in your skull!" He pulls his jury-rigged device out of his pocket, arms it, and tosses it into Yu's panicked, grasping hands. "Here, take this!"

"You're kidding me--" Yu starts to say.

That's when he crackles all over with energy and collapses, unconscious.

Steve looks at Tony. Tony looks back, grimacing, wiping the back of his forehead with his sweaty hand.

"I don't remember this being in the plan," Steve says.

Of course, the plan had actually involved getting Temugin's location out of the guy and using the improvised taser as a last resort, but that clearly hadn't happened.

"Well, paying this murdering asshole off definitely wasn't," Tony says. "We got more from him than I thought we would, anyway."

Tony's looking sicker and sicker, and then he claps his hand to his mouth and starts coughing. It's an awful, wet sound, and he doubles over, racked by spasms that are clearly agonizing. He drops to his knees, then hands and knees. -- or rather, hand. His other hand is still clamped over his mouth.

"Tony!" Steve cries out.

He drops the cases. He's at Tony's side in an instant, crouched next to him. Tony glances up at him, sitting back on his heels, rocking back like he's about to fall over. His face is sallow, dripping with sweat. His eyes are wide and pain-filled, terrified. Steve can't remember ever seeing Tony looking this scared, about anything.

His hand is still over his mouth, and bright blood is oozing from between his fingers.

When Tony had been talking about coughing up a lung, he'd meant that entirely literally.

"Oh, Tony," Steve says. His hand goes reflexively to Tony's back, even though Tony can't feel it through the suit. "Oh, God. It's going to be okay. Let's get you back to the--"

"Get me my suit," Tony rasps.

"What?"

Tony drops his hand away. Blood flecks his lips. His eyes are cool and determined. "Get me my suit," Tony repeats. "It's time for me to find the Mandarin."

"Tony," Steve says, desperately, "you're _coughing up blood_ , and you're not in any condition to--"

Tony meets his eyes. "This is the endgame, Steve. We're already in it. Charge laid, fuse lit. There isn't any way to stop now. When Yu wakes up he's going to know we double-crossed him, and his employer's going to be missing him soon if he isn't already." He breathes out, a terrible scraping sound. "You said you trusted me. This is what you're trusting me to do. Okay?"

He hadn't realized it would feel like this. Tony's already so wounded that it feels like sending him off to certain death. He doesn't want to be a party to this.

"Okay," he says, and it's like he's ripped his own heart out, agreeing to let this happen.

"Good." Tony gives him a tight smile. There's blood on his teeth. "And you can help me give the FBI a going-away present, while you're at it."

It's an interesting choice of words, and a hideous one. Tony only needs a going-away present if he's not coming back.

_Please live_ , he thinks. _Please, Tony. Just live through this._

* * *

"I just want to let you know that this is the least fun I've ever had in the backseat of a car," Tony informs him, as he wrestles Yu's unconscious body into the sedan.

One of the advantages, apparently, of knocking out one of the Mandarin's lackeys is that said lackey already kept rope and duct tape in his trunk, so he's going to be very secure even after he wakes up. Steve trussed him up himself and tried not to think about how Tony was leaning against the brick wall of the alley as he watched, panting for air.

Tony had the energy left to make a few bondage jokes, so Steve told himself Tony couldn't be on death's door. He's hoping that's still true.

No one's taken any notice of them yet, even though Tony is fully armored up now as he drags Yu around. Luckily, they didn't have to carry Yu far, since he parked blocking the alley itself. But Steve suspects they haven't got a lot of time, what with the armor. Iron Man is a pretty distinctive-looking fella and also the subject of a nationwide manhunt.

"Take me to your garage and I'll make it up to you when we get through this," Steve calls back. When. When, not if. He has to believe that Tony is going to be okay. That's really all he can do, if he can't join the fight.

Steve's in the front seat, passenger side, going through the glove compartment. It's not like the guy's going to have a map with MANDARIN'S SECRET HQ circled on it, but Steve's hoping there's some kind of clue. So far there's a bulky cell phone and several dozen receipts of varying age.

Tony slams the back door shut, opens the front door, and slides into the driver's seat. "Any luck?"

"Not much." Steve holds up a wadded handful of receipts. "The guy never throws his receipts away. I can tell you that much."

Tony hasn't flipped the faceplate down yet, so Steve can see him squinting at the receipts. "What are those, parking stubs?"

Opening his hand, Steve takes a closer look. "I think so?"

Tony purses his lips as he studies them. "Are they all parking stubs... for the same garage?"

They are. And they all have an address on them. Perfect.

This, Steve thinks, as he swells with pride, is is why Tony's a genius. God, he loves him. "It looks like, yeah."

"What do you think the odds are," Tony says, "that he parks near where he works?"

Steve meets his gaze. "I think the odds are good that you've found the Mandarin."

Tony looks evenly back, and then he swallows, reaches for Yu's cell phone, and dials a number. "Hi," Tony says, very politely. "This is Tony Stark calling for Special Agent Neil Streich. I have a location for him of a person of interest to his investigation." He rattles off the cross streets, a description of the car, the plate numbers, and then he hangs up.

Steve breathes out. "The clock's ticking, huh?"

"That it is," Tony agrees, voice grim. "This is where we part ways, Winghead." He meets Steve's eyes, swallows hard, and then he reaches out and covers Steve's hand with his. The gauntlet is heavy where it rests atop Steve's bare fingers. "If I don't come back--"

"You're coming back," Steve says, firmly. He lifts Tony's gauntleted hand and presses it to his lips, feeling the cool metal against his mouth. "You are."

He can't let himself entertain any other possibility.

"I'll do my best." Tony smiles back, nods once, and pushes his faceplate down with his other hand. "See you on the other side."

And then he pulls his hand out of Steve's grasp and gets out of the car, shutting the door behind him. He's standing there in the street for one second, then two. His head tilts up and he jumps, and then the boot jets catch, and then he's in the sky, and then he's gone.

Steve has to get out of here before the FBI shows up.

He inhales, exhales, and realizes he knows exactly where he's going to go. It's not even a question.

He remembers the way Tony looked at him, kneeling in the alley. He remembers the blood spattered across Tony's mouth. Tony looked at him, frightened, like he thought he was going to die. Like he _knew_ he was going to die, and he'd decided to pretend otherwise for Steve's sake.

There's no way Steve is abandoning him to that. His promises to stay out of it aren't important, not when Tony's dying. Even if Steve can't take on the Mandarin all by himself for Tony, he can still help, can't he? Tony needs him.

Maybe Tony has to fight the Mandarin. Maybe he's right about that much. But he doesn't have to do it alone.

Steve pulls his shirt open, letting bright scale-mail shine underneath. He yanks his cowl up, and he leans back and unlatches the case that's sitting against the side of the car. His shield gleams.

It's time to stop hiding. It's time to be an Avenger. It's time to save Tony.

* * *

Steve's never been more grateful for the serum than he is at this moment. When he's running full-out, at top speed, he can cover a whole lot of ground, fast. It only takes him about five minutes to get to Yu's parking garage, and most of that is spent yelling at civilians to get out of his way. He's noticeable as hell now that he's in uniform, but that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is getting to Tony.

His thoughts are occupied with the question of how he's going to find the Mandarin's building once he gets to the garage, because after all Tony's the one with the tracker -- but when he gets there, he finds that he needn't have worried at all.

There's a building with a huge hole in one of the windows a few dozen stories up. Shards of glass are scattered all over the sidewalk and street below; the incident is so recent that no one has even begun to clean it up yet. It looks like Tony decided to take a shortcut to get to the Mandarin.

Unfortunately, Steve has to take the long way up.

No one in the lobby stops him as he bolts across the polished marble floors and into a waiting elevator. It'll be faster than the stairs. He slams the button for the penthouse, impatiently, as the doors close. If he were the Mandarin, that's where he'd be.

The ride seems to take an eternity. Steve breathes and repositions his shield and tries not to think about Tony dying under the Mandarin's onslaught while he's stuck in an elevator. His mind provides all-too-vivid pictures of a cackling madman standing over Tony's lifeless body.

He's coming as fast as he can. Tony just needs to hold on.

When the elevator doors finally open, they open onto a tight corridor whose walls are draped in hanging fabric banners, and Steve is immediately spotted by half a dozen henchmen. Steve can feel his mouth twist into a grin.

"Hey, fellas," Steve calls out. "Nice to see you. Want to introduce me to your boss?"

They rush him. He likes when they make it easy.

A couple of them have guns. Bullets ping harmlessly off his shield, and he takes out the first two men with a swing of his shield. They collapse immediately.

Steve's sure not seeing why Tony said this would be hard. So far it's easier than Hydra agents or AIM beekeepers. Hell, most of these guys don't even have guns, and if they're trained in martial arts, it's not at all evident from the sloppy fighting on display here.

He pitches his shield sideways in a throw he barely has to think about and it caroms off the heads of three more men before returning to his hand.

The last guy -- a big guy in green and gold robes -- doesn't even try to fight him. 

"My master will deal with you, American pig!" the man says, scornfully, like he thinks he's above trading a few blows with Steve, and he turns and ducks behind one of the banners, disappearing down some unseen hallway.

That's fine by Steve. One less lackey to take out means more time for him to find Tony.

It doesn't take him long to notice the sounds of a fight in the distance, somewhere off to the right. It's hard for Steve to tell precisely where, even with his hearing; the sound of heavy blows and the familiar crackle of Tony's repulsor rays echoes down the corridor, muffled by the fabric banners. The first two banners Steve checks behind don't go anywhere. One is covering a storage closet; the other dead-ends into a wall.

But the third and final banner on the right conceals a short corridor ending in a T-junction, and just as Steve dashes down there wondering which way to go, he hears another noise from his left, even closer now.

Excellent. He's got this, for sure.

The last corridor opens up on a huge room. There are stone pillars around the outside. Hanging between them are more banners, inscribed with Chinese characters. Other than a golden dragon statue, the room is bare of furniture. And on the far side of the room are its only two occupants. There's a man Steve assumes is the Mandarin. His head is shaved, he wears black and red robes, and ten rings gleam on his fingers. He doesn't seem to have noticed Steve. He's facing away from him, and all his attention is on... Tony.

Tony is still upright, but barely. The lights on his armor are flickering, and the plates are dented and scraped. He looks like he's been in a hell of a fight. He's not even raising his hands, and Steve wonders if that's because the suit is broken or if Tony just doesn't have the strength.

Oh, God. Tony definitely never meant to survive this.

Tony's head tilts, and that's when Steve realizes that Tony can see him. Even if the Mandarin hasn't, Tony certainly has noticed him.

The comms crackle in Steve's ear. It's their private frequency.

"I told you not to come, Steve." He can't see Tony's eyes through the mask on this suit, but Tony's voice is raw, rasping, tense with pain. With agony. "You don't want to watch this."

The Mandarin lashes out with a palm strike several times harder than any ordinary human should be capable of. He hits Tony dead-on in the middle of his chest, right over Tony's healing wound. And Tony, who doesn't even try to block it, makes a horrible strangled gagging sound and flies backwards. He sails straight through the stone pillar behind him. It cracks around him as he hits the wall, hard.

Tony can't survive another hit like that. Terror rises within Steve. Tony has to live. He has to. He can't die now, now that they know they could be happy together. Fate can't take Tony away from him. Not now, not like this, not when they've never even had a chance.

"Tony!" Steve cries out. 

He doesn't know what he's going to do. Distract the Mandarin, maybe. But all he knows is that he has to do something. He lifts his shield and charges forward--

Without even looking at him, the Mandarin flings out one hand in his direction, imperiously, and Steve... can't move. It's like he's run into a wall. Pain bursts all over his body. An unseen force is dragging him back, pinning him to the far wall as surely as if he were bound in adamantium chains. The shield falls from his numb hand. He can't even talk; the power is pressing on his throat.

There's nothing he can do.

He understands, too late, Tony's certainty about this fight. Steve can't win. There's no way he can fight the Mandarin. He hadn't really believed Tony about that. He believes Tony now.

Tony is half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, in the middle of the wreckage of the column. The unibeam housing in the center of the chestplate, usually glowing golden with energy, is dim, cracked down the center by the force of the Mandarin's blow. There's probably very little power left in the armor, and that means that Tony, already wounded, must be trapped in a few hundred pounds of metal. That's definitely not helping his chances.

Steve watches in horror as Tony tries to push himself up once, twice, but he can't. He just sags back down, his legs folded under him gracelessly, his back pressed against the wall. His head is tipped down like he doesn't even have the strength to raise it. He's not going anywhere. It's over.

All he can hear is Tony's breathing. Tony must have just enough power for the vocal filters, because Tony's labored exhalations are a slow mechanical hiss, like static. The pause between them grows longer and longer with each breath.

Tony's dying.

Steve has showed up to the fight just in time to watch Tony die, right before his eyes.

No. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

The Mandarin finally deigns to notice Steve, glancing back contemptuously at him like Steve doesn't merit more than a second of his attention. It's honestly not the way Steve is used to being treated, even by villains, but right now all he can think about is Tony.

"Your loyalty to your friend is commendable, Captain," the Mandarin says. His voice is brimming with satisfaction, the way the villains always get right before they think they're going to win -- but this time, no one can stop him. "Commendable indeed, though misplaced. I will favor you with the honor of witnessing his death, so that you may tell your Avengers how he died."

The ghostly force on Steve's neck loosens just enough for him to talk, and Steve supposes the Mandarin is letting him reply. Steve gasps for breath. Air rushes over his throat like fire.

"Take me," Steve forces out. He'll plead. He'll beg. He'll do anything if it saves Tony. "Take me instead. You can have anything you want from me. You want to hurt someone? Hurt me. We can make it a trade. Name your price. Just let him go. I don't care what you do to me. You can do anything you want. You can kill me if you want. Just, please, let him go."

The Mandarin's eyes narrow. "Why do you think you have anything I want?" He laughs a scornful laugh. "You seem to be under the delusion that you interest me, Captain. You don't. _You_ didn't murder my father." His gaze settles on Tony. "Stark did. All I desire is my vengeance, and only his death will give me that."

That unearthly tightness constricts Steve's throat once again. It was worth a try. But all he can do is watch as the Mandarin turns back to Tony.

The Mandarin's hands curl into fists. Flame wreaths his left hand, and his right hand is coated with the chilly blue-white of ice. This is the magic of the rings, and Steve knows now that he and Tony are both powerless against any of it.

"Finally, this is the moment," the Mandarin says. Cool. Triumphant. "Stand, Stark. Stand so that the death-blow will do credit to us both." His fists tighten; the flame goes brighter.

Tony doesn't move. Steve's pretty sure he's not standing because he can't.

He was right: Steve doesn't want to watch this.

"So you can feel better about killing me?" Tony rasps. The filters are starting to cut out. His voice is half-mechanical, half-human, and all pain. "Forget it. Let murder be murder."

He sounds so brave. Steve wouldn't have expected anything else. But it's not much comfort to know that Tony's going to die a hero.

"So be it!" the Mandarin snarls, lunging forward. "You had your chance for honor!"

Steve can't look away as the Mandarin's right fist, the icy one, wraps around Tony's throat, pinning him to the wall. Steve can hear the armor plates creaking in the Mandarin's grasp, and he watches in horror as the suit buckles in at Tony's throat. He's going to crush Tony in his own armor.

The Mandarin draws his fiery fist back for the killing blow, and waits.

He's waiting for Tony's last words, Steve realizes.

"Honor?" Tony's voice is a hoarse whisper. Steve has to strain to hear him. Tony can barely talk. Steve can hear his rasping breaths, the way he's struggling for air. "What chance did you give your victims at the embassy?"

And the Mandarin just... stops. From what Steve can see of his face, he's squinting in confusion, like he has no idea why Tony would waste his last words on this. Then his lip curls in derision. "Slander, no matter how obscene, will not faze me!" he snaps. "The embassy bombing? I would never! Such an act would violate every principle!"

What the hell?

The Mandarin actually sounds _sincere_. Like he didn't do it and he can't imagine why Tony thinks he did. That's not generally what Steve is accustomed to hearing from supervillains. But Yu confessed. Yu was only too happy to claim credit, in fact. And Yu worked for the Mandarin.

So what in God's name is going on here?

Tony is clearly just as perplexed as Steve is. "Skip the plausible deniability act." Tony's still gasping. His breaths are wet and harsh, echoing through the mask. Steve can't decide if he wishes he could see Tony's face, or if he should be glad he can't. "I know you got the weapon schematics from a discarded Pentagon hard drive. The vehicles, the doctored financials, the hit teams, they all lead here -- all directed by a frequency beaming out from the top of this building."

Then a man steps out from the doorway Steve came through. He's the same man Steve fought at the elevator -- the guy in green and gold robes, the one who retreated.

The Mandarin turns. His mouth parts in shocked recognition. "Po?" His voice wavers.

Yu said he worked with someone named Po.

It looks like Yu wasn't the only one willing to betray his boss.

And, more importantly, the Mandarin's grip on the rings wavers. He's not paying attention. Steve can breathe again. He can move again. The rings release him and he slides to the floor, reaching for his fallen shield.

But Tony is faster. With what has to be the last bit of strength in him, Tony raises both his hands and fires, hitting the Mandarin with his repulsor rays.

Any ordinary human would be unconscious or dead. But the Mandarin, as Steve is now coming to accept, is nowhere near ordinary. The blast only knocks him off-balance. Wobbling, he falls to the floor.

Tony doesn't follow up on the attack. He just slumps forward. He's on his hands and knees now. Some kind of smoke is curling from the suit, and Steve supposes that was the last energy the suit had in it as well. Steve can just barely make out Tony's breaths, harsh and wet, and the suit is trembling ever so slightly as Tony struggles not to crash to the floor. He doesn't have the strength to pull himself upright. But he's alive. That's what matters.

Luckily, neither Po nor the Mandarin are paying either of them any attention, and that means Steve still has a chance -- not to win the fight, but to save Tony. Pushing his shield in front of him across the floor, Steve starts to crawl as surreptitiously as he can. If he can-- if he can just get to Tony without either the Mandarin or Po noticing, he can get Tony out of here alive.

Steve wouldn't ordinarily consider running away from the enemy to be a victory, but right now he'll take anything as long as Tony's safe.

"I've been blind, haven't I, Po?" the Mandarin asks, as he rises to his knees. "His words aren't slander. They are only slightly mistaken."

He speaks quietly now, a contrast to his underling's red-faced bluster. Steve keeps crawling.

"Why did you let him hit you like that?" Po splutters. "It's-- it's profane! Finish him!"

Tony is still crouched on the floor when Steve reaches him. The only sign of life is the suit shaking and creaking as he tries to lift his head. Without the HUD, Steve can almost make out Tony's eyes in the shadows of the eyeslits.

"Get out of here," Tony whispers. "Save yourself, Steve. You can't help me."

Steve's throat tightens, fear and rage and sadness. "I'm not leaving you. We're getting out of here together."

Tony's head droops even lower. Blood slides out of the mouth slit of his helmet. "I can't walk, and I can't fly, and I think they're going to notice if you pick me up and carry me."

"Then I'm staying," Steve says.

He crawls in front of Tony, picks up his shield, and covers both of them as best he can. He's not sure how long he's going to last once the Mandarin is done dealing with Po, but giving his life to protect Tony is a trade he doesn't even have to think about.

Even if his life only buys Tony a few more minutes, it's better than helplessly watching, better than abandoning Tony to his fate. It's the right thing to do.

Po is helping the Mandarin to his feet, and the Mandarin is still staring at him in stunned horror. Steve is grateful for the distraction.

"It's too obvious to deny." The Mandarin's face is shocked, pale. "You, whose trust I relied on above all -- you've betrayed me!"

" _I've_ betrayed you?" Po asks, incredulous. "You've betrayed all of us-- your father-- all who have slaved for his dream! Your weakness, your hesitations, your vacillation... you would not leap, so I've pushed you."

Metal gleams as Po slides a dagger from the voluminous folds of his sleeve, and Steve can only watch as Po stabs the Mandarin in the back.

Once again the Mandarin stumbles and falls to his knees. Blood is rapidly staining his robes, and his face contorts with pain.

Listening to Tony's rasping, agonized breaths behind him, Steve honestly can't find it in himself to be that sorry. Sure, maybe the Mandarin hadn't been responsible for the rest of the murder attempts this week, but Tony is collapsed here on the brink of death because of him, and Steve will take Tony over the Mandarin any day.

Po is standing over the Mandarin, thundering down a litany of complaints. "I've destabilized Asia, as your father's plans demand! I've lured his killer to you, so you could slay him!" he snarls. "And what do you do with these boons? With the empire your father left you? Nothing! Because you are _nothing_! And if that is true, then all of us, who have so long scraped and sacrificed -- then we are also nothing!"

It's the sort of rousing speech that Steve expects to see preceding an out-and-out revolution. He's expecting to see Po's hand-picked traitors running into the room -- either that, or the Mandarin's remaining loyal lackeys.

But no one comes. Steve wonders if maybe that's because he knocked them all unconscious when he took the elevator up.

The echoes of Po's triumphant cry die away. Another second, two, and that's when Po seems to realize that no one is backing him up. His gaze darts warily around the room. Steve can't believe this guy didn't have an exit plan worked out for what he was going to do after he stabbed the Mandarin in the back -- but as Po takes an unsteady step backwards, Steve is forced to conclude that that has to be the case.

The Mandarin turns. He's starting to rise; he's up on one knee now. And his hands are outstretched, crackling with power.

Po is stock-still where he stands, and Steve can't tell if that's from fear or if the Mandarin is literally holding him in place.

"You've betrayed me," the Mandarin repeats, and Po's eyes widen as the Mandarin flexes his fingers. Golden light shines around his fists. This is an execution.

"Temugin." Tony's voice is almost too soft to be heard, and Steve can only turn around and stare as Tony pushes himself, shaking, up to his knees. "Spare him." Tony coughs wetly, a horrible sound. "Spare his life. Let him face justice."

The Mandarin pauses. He tilts his head at Tony. "You would beg for Po's life, Stark, but not your own?"

It's a good question. It's what Steve's wondering, right about now. What the hell is Tony thinking, drawing the attention of the man who was just trying to murder him?

"He killed hundreds of innocent people," Tony says. "He needs to be made to account for his crimes, yes, but not like this. Turning him over to the authorities is the right thing to do. The law will treat him as he deserves. I'm an Avenger. I believe in that. I have to believe in that. And as for my life--" Tony gasps, another rasping breath, half of a sad laugh-- "well, that's between you and your honor, isn't it?"

The Mandarin just looks at him. Seconds pass. Steve counts them by Tony's breaths, slower and slower. And then the Mandarin opens his hand. The knife falls out of his back, pulled out by that same unseen force that plagued Steve, and when it hits the floor he turns and points at Po, whose eyes roll back into his head.

Po topples over.

"He is unconscious," the Mandarin says. "You may do with him what you will. You have exposed his treachery to me, and the blood-debt between us has been paid. I shall not seek your death. Farewell, Stark."

He rises, his robes fluttering around him, and then he rises higher, levitating, as he floats through the doorway and is gone.

Tony turns his head toward Steve. "I think that went--"

And then Tony collapses, crashing to the floor in a ringing of metal.

"Tony!" Steve calls out, not caring who hears him now. He sits up and drags Tony toward him, pulling Tony's head into his lap. He's heavy in the armor, but Steve hardly notices as he frantically rips off the faceplate.

Tony's face is covered in blood. Blood drips down his forehead, trickles from his nose, oozes from his split lip. It stains his chin, the blood he's been coughing up since this morning. His eyes move in Steve's direction but he's not focusing, and terror coils in Steve's gut.

"I love you," Tony rasps. He's trying to smile, but his mouth just quivers. "Figured-- figured maybe I should -- oh, God -- say that a couple more times. While I still had the chance." He inhales sharply and starts coughing again.

No. No, no, no. They didn't come this far for Tony not to make it.

"We're not doing this, Tony." Steve's hands rove frantically over the broken armor, his fingertips bare inches from the bruised and bloody skin of Tony's face, looking for somewhere, anywhere that's safe to touch. "We made it, and you're going to be okay now, and it's over. Someone must have called the cops or SHIELD. Help is coming. You just have to hold on."

Tony's next breath is even slower. "Trying," he slurs. "I'm just so-- so tired--"

Steve watches Tony's eyelids droop, flutter shut, open wider. He's fighting it, Steve knows, but he doesn't know how much longer Tony can fight.

"I love you," Steve says, fiercely. "I love you so much, Tony, and I'm so proud of you. You're the best of us, you know that. The best and the bravest." His fingers are wrapped around Tony's gauntleted hand and he knows Tony can't feel it but at least this way he knows he's not hurting him more. "And I know you're tired, but I just need you to do this one thing for me, okay? Just hold on. Just a little bit longer. I know you can do it."

Tony's mouth quivers again, another try at a smile. "Well," he breathes, and there's barely any voice behind the words, "I'd hate to disappoint Captain America."

Steve feels tears trickling down his face, soaking his cowl.

He can't. He can't lose Tony. Not like this.

And then he hears footsteps pounding down the hallway, and SHIELD personnel fill the room, and -- oh, thank God -- some of them are medical technicians, and they've got a stretcher.

"Don't hurt him!" Steve says, as fast as he can. "Don't hurt him, he's innocent, he needs help right now, _please_ \--"

And then someone's standing right in front of him, and Steve looks up and up until he sees Nick staring down at him. "I know, Cap. He's going to be okay. We've got him."

Steve helps the doctors lift Tony up and he puts him carefully down on the stretcher, which creaks under the armor's weight. They're already cracking off the chestplate as they're hurrying him away. Steve turns to face Nick even as he wishes he were accompanying Tony. He knows Tony wasn't safe at the hospital, and all of a sudden he can't bear to let Tony out of his sight.

It's better now, he tells himself. No one's trying to kill Tony anymore. Tony's going to be okay. They're taking care of him. They can help him better than Steve can. He has to accept that.

Other agents are cuffing the unconscious Po, but to Steve that seems like the least important thing.

"He's okay?" he repeats.

He doesn't mean to make it sound like a question, but Nick nods. "Mmm-hmm. That guy you left tied-up in his car had a lot of interesting things to say. Stark will be cleared of all charges. As will you," he adds, not that Steve was even thinking about that.

"Okay," Steve says. "You think I could hitch a ride to the hospital?"

Nick grins. "I think it's the least I could do."

* * *

Steve's beginning to think he's never going to leave this chair in the hospital waiting room. It's been hours. When he got here, Tony was already in surgery, and they promised him they'd let him see Tony as soon as Tony woke up -- and that hasn't happened yet.

All he can do is wait.

At least when it was him taking care of Tony, he could _do_ something, even if it wasn't everything Tony needed. He hates being helpless. He always has. And he knows he especially doesn't do well with his loved ones in danger. He supposes that, if he's going to be dating Tony, he has to get used to it.

_Are_ they dating? It wasn't as if Tony made any promises--

Now he's just being ridiculous, he tells himself. Tony loves him. He's loved him for years. He said so. He doesn't just want a one-night stand. That much is obvious.

Pepper walks by him twice without recognizing him. Steve is still wearing his uniform, but he has a trench coat over it. And he has the cowl pulled back. He supposes the black hair is a better disguise than he thought it would be.

"Hey, Pepper!" he calls out, and she jumps, startled.

"Captain!" she says. "I nearly missed you!" She folds herself up in the seat next to him. "I was about to go home for the night. Any news?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing yet. But they say they'll let me know the instant he's awake. If there's something you want me to tell him, I can pass it on."

He wonders if it's obvious, looking at him, how he feels for Tony, if Pepper can see it on his face, all his worry, all his love for Tony. Not to mention, of course, the fact that even the Avengers don't usually do this for each other -- sure, if it's life-or-death, they'll be there, but Tony is in stable condition now, the doctors said. Usually at this point even the Avengers decide it's okay to get some sleep.

Pepper might know Tony well, but she doesn't really know Steve or the Avengers, and Steve watches it all slip by her. If Tony wants to tell her, that's Tony's choice; Steve's not going to out their relationship to Pepper before they've even been on an actual date.

She just smiles. "Well, Happy woke up a few hours ago, finally. If they let you see Tony, it would be great if you could tell him--"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, of course I will. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. I'm so glad to hear it."

"I am too," Pepper says, with a tired, relieved smile, as she pushes herself up out of the chair. "Anyway, I'll see you--"

"See you around," Steve finishes.

Good news. He breathes out. Maybe everything is finally going right.

Steve picks up the book next to him -- some thriller novel, left here by some other patient's family -- but he doesn't get very far into it before the chair next to him creaks as someone sits down.

"That's the stupidest hair I've ever seen," Nick informs him. "You know that's not going to come out, right?"

Steve sets the book down. "So I've been told. You hear anything about Tony yet?" He tries to keep his voice casual. He's just an Avenger asking about a teammate.

"Nope," Nick says. He hooks his thumbs into his uniform belt and stretches his legs out, covering a half-dozen squares of the linoleum floor in a long line. "I got a couple of guys on the door. They'll keep me posted. And you, if you want." And then he looks over at Steve and seems to really see him, because his face twists in something that might be actual sympathy. "For Christ's sake, Cap, you look like shit. Go home and get some sleep. Stark will still be here in the morning."

_He wasn't last time_ , Steve doesn't say. _Last time I left him here, someone tried to kill him._

"If it's all the same to you," Steve says, "I'm going to wait. I'd feel a lot better if I could just see him myself."

Nick gives him a long, even look, and that's when Steve realizes that Nick knows him a hell of a lot better than Pepper does, that Nick is a _professional spy_ , and that Nick knows exactly why he's still here.

"So." Nick raises his eyebrows. "It's like that, huh?"

There's no condemnation in his voice, just curiosity.

What the hell, it's not like he doesn't already know.

"Yeah," Steve says, quietly. "It's like that."

He gives Nick his best challenging glare, daring, waiting to see if Nick's going to make something of it, but Nick just chuckles and holds up his hands in surrender.

"Don't you give me that look," Nick says, shaking his head. "Whatever you want to get up to is your own business. Are you only gonna be happy if I say I'd date him too? Because I'm telling you right now, he ain't my type."

"Pretty sure he doesn't want to date you either," Steve retorts. "So it's a good thing no one was suggesting it."

Nick just laughs, but it's the kind of laugh that means everything is going to be all right.

"Captain Rogers?" a nurse says, from the hallway, and Steve is on his feet in an instant, shield in hand. They can call him paranoid, but he's not going to see Tony without some way to protect him.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"He's awake," she says, "and he's asking for you."

He follows the nurse down the hallway, down another hallway, and they come to a stop outside a door that has two SHIELD agents, one on either side. It makes Steve feel better to see them. Sure, Tony had been guarded before, and Po's killer nurse had still gotten to him -- but it hadn't been SHIELD then, and he at least trusts SHIELD to do a better job.

Plus, he's got his shield, and that never fails him.

The nurse opens the door and steps aside, and right there, right in there, there's Tony--

"What do you think?" Tony's question is a dry croak. "Prettiest you've ever seen me, or what?"

Objectively, Tony looks like he's been through hell. The hospital blanket is folded down to his waist, and his chest is once again swathed in gauze, bandages, and more bandages. His entire torso is covered in mottled bruising and dotted with electrodes. There's a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow, and his face is scraped open. Stubble is coming in black on his chin, clashing with the blond of his hair. There's an IV bag of something clear, dripping into a port on Tony's arm. Tony gestures illustratively at himself with the hand wearing the oxygen monitor.

It might not be the best he's ever looked, but Steve can't remember ever being happier to see Tony than he is right now. Tony's alive and Tony loves him, and nothing else matters.

Tony's expression is starting to waver, like he thinks Steve might actually be having second thoughts.

"Definitely, yeah," Steve says, and he can feel himself smiling. "You are absolutely the most beautiful I have ever seen you."

Tony smiles back and stretches out a hand. He can't reach very far, but Steve's at his side in an instant, pulling off his gloves, very carefully taking Tony's hand in both of his.

"The doctor said you did a great job with the stitches, by the way," Tony says. "A-plus." Tony is smiling a little broader, a little more unrestrained, and Steve can't even be sorry that they've probably given him the painkillers he hates, because, God, does he ever need them.

"You're welcome," Steve says. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," Tony says, with another smile. "Looking forward to going a few rounds with you in the ring. Or the bedroom. Probably the bedroom." He manages a surprisingly flirtatious grin for someone in the condition he's in. "We're going to have a lot of fun, aren't we?"

Wow, Tony is on an awful lot of drugs right now. Steve squeezes his hand again. "I hope so. I'm glad you're going to be better."

"Me too," Tony says, and he squeezes Steve's hand back. "I love you. I really do. You-- you make me happy, Steve," he says, earnestly. "I'm not-- I'm not happy a lot. But I am when I'm with you."

Steve should probably feel a little more terrible about hearing Tony tell him he loves him, given that he's drugged to the eyeballs. But he's practically glowing with warmth. "That makes me so happy," he says. "I want you to be happy. I do."

Tony just smiles.

"Oh!" Steve remembers a few things Tony should probably know. "Pepper said Happy is awake."

Tony is still smiling. "That's great."

"And, uh," Steve says, "I might have told Nick Fury we were dating. Sorry."

Tony looks thoughtful. "I feel like I'd usually be more upset about that," he says, brow wrinkled, like trying to understand his own feelings is taking all the brainpower he has, "but right now I don't even care. Do you think they'll let you sleep here? I don't want you to leave."

Steve leans into Tony and stretches out in the chair. It's more comfortable than the one in the hotel room, at least. "Just let them try to move me."

He knows he's being just a bit irrational, but he figures he's allowed to be. Maybe tomorrow he'll go home and come back at regular visiting hours, but tonight he's going to keep Tony safe, just one more time.

* * *

Tony is released from the hospital five days later. Privately Steve thinks that maybe he could have stayed a little longer, but he also saw with every visit how Tony was getting more and more stir-crazy, and it's not like he's any better when he's injured. So he understands Tony's need to get back on his feet. Metaphorically. Sort of. Tony's actually on crutches.

Since Happy is, of course, still in the hospital, Steve is continuing to play both bodyguard and chauffeur. He gives Tony one last dubious glance as he pulls up in the empty parking space in front of Avengers Mansion.

"You know," Steve says, "it's not too late for me to take you to your tower instead. You've got an elevator there. I know it would be easier on you. You sure you don't want me to...?"

Tony just shakes his head. His beard has mostly grown back in, so he looks a little more like himself, but the blond hair is still startling. The bruises on his face haven't faded much yet -- and neither have the ones elsewhere -- but his color is much better, and he definitely looks like he's on the mend, provided he can stay out of fights.

"Nah," Tony says. "It's-- it's lonely there. I don't want to be alone." He looks a little uncomfortable, like this is more than he wanted to admit to.

Steve definitely understands that impulse. In a house full of Avengers, none of them are ever really alone unless they put a lot of effort into it, and this way there will always be someone around to check on Tony. When he thinks of it like that, he likes that idea better.

"Okay," Steve says. "Let's see what we can do about getting you somewhere less lonely."

By the time Tony -- with the help of his crutches -- gets himself up the stairs to the second floor where the bedrooms are, he sure looks like he's regretting the idea of staying somewhere with stairs. His breathing is a little harsher, and his face is set into the flat expression he gets when he's trying not to show pain.

"Maybe I'll just stay up here until I can walk," Tony says, wistfully. "Beg for food."

He knows Tony is making a joke of it _because_ he feels bad about wanting it, so he just smiles. "Okay," he says. "Tell me what you want and I'll give you it."

The double entendre admittedly didn't occur to him, but Tony just looks at him and smiles an unbelievably filthy smile that makes Steve feel hot all over. At least that means Tony has to be feeling okay still, if he can flirt. Steve wonders if he needs to find a better gauge of Tony's pain levels.

Anyway, he tells him, Tony just got out of the hospital. There's no way he's up for anything. Steve just needs to take a few breaths and get himself under control. All he's doing right now is taking Tony to his room.

"You okay there?" he asks, when he thinks his voice is steady enough.

Tony's smile now is perfectly innocent, of course. "Oh, I'm perfectly fine," he murmurs.

Soon enough, they're at Tony's door, which Steve unlocks for him so Tony doesn't have to fumble with the crutches. He waits at the door as Tony limps inside and slowly makes his way across the room until he finally sits down on the edge of the bed, leaning the crutches on his bedside table.

Steve realizes he's still got Tony's pills in his pocket and he sets the bottle down on the table by the door. "Right," Steve says, one hand on the doorknob. "Is there anything else you want for right now, or should I just leave you--"

The rest of the sentence dies in his throat, as Tony looks up at him through his eyelashes. Tony leans back on the bed, just a little. He smiles up at Steve, a smile that suggests that the only thing Steve should be doing right now is stripping naked and joining him in bed. His smile widens just a fraction, suggesting that he's already picturing it.

Steve is suddenly, helplessly, hard. He's so dizzy with desire that he doesn't think he remembers how to breathe.

"I'd really like it if you came inside." Tony's voice is a soft purr. "I know the doctors checked me over, but wouldn't you feel better if you had a _really good_ look at me, Steve? You could be as thorough as you need to be. You could touch me absolutely _everywhere_. Just to be sure I'm still okay. I think you'd feel... better." The way he stresses _better_ makes it quite clear that he has some suggestions on that front.

Steve can tell exactly what game Tony is playing, all right, and he is aware, as all the blood in his body rapidly heads south, that everything in him is telling him this is a great idea. But he has about two brain cells left to be rational with, and he does manage to get a question out rather than immediately ripping Tony's clothes off. "Tony," he says, unsteadily. "You just got out of the hospital. Are you sure this is something you want to be doing? Are you sure you're okay to do this?"

They'd gone over Tony's discharge instructions with him at the hospital, and no one had specifically mentioned sex -- but on the other hand, they hadn't been thinking Captain America was interested in sleeping with Iron Man, and people do tend to get a little funny talking about sex with him, like they think he's sworn to celibacy along with the uniform.

Tony's gaze is drifting toward Steve's groin, where his uniform is suddenly far, far too tight.

Steve takes a step inside and lets the door close behind him anyway, because this is not a conversation he wants to have in the hallway.

"Steve," Tony says, patiently, "I have spent _an entire week_ knowing that we have feelings for each other and not being able to do a damn thing about it. I have spent _five days_ in a hospital bed with nothing to do except think about your mouth and your hands and your-- your whole goddamn body, and I think if I don't get to touch you as soon as humanly possible, I am actually going to die from frustration. And nobody wants that. So if you don't want to, that's one thing, but if you do want to, then-- please--"

He smiles again, and that's when Steve realizes Tony is actually also hard, or at least getting there; he's not trying to hide the bulge in his pants, and he supposes that if Tony's feeling good enough that his body can actually respond, that's a good sign.

"I don't want to hurt you, though," Steve says. "I really don't."

"And I don't want you to hurt me," Tony responds. "I'm not asking you to fuck me through the mattress or suspend me from the ceiling. I just-- I'll hold really still, so still, I promise. It'll be fine." He looks at Steve so eagerly, so bright-eyed, and, yeah, there's no way Steve can hold out against that. He can make Tony happy.

"Okay," Steve says. "Shirt off?"

Tony nods, and Steve walks across the room to crouch in front of Tony and help him unbutton his shirt. Each button reveals another few inches of skin. There aren't yards of bandages anymore, just a few adhesive butterfly bandages stuck over the healing wounds near Tony's charging port. The bruising is more extensive, but he has to be okay. They wouldn't have let him come home if he weren't okay.

As he undoes the next button, his fingers brush against one of the few unbruised spots on Tony's torso. Tony shivers and makes a soft, quiet, wordless noise, a noise that doesn't sound like pain at all, and suddenly Steve is even harder. This is how they felt before, in the hotel room, when neither of them could act on it, but now they're home and safe and they can do everything they wanted then. 

It's a strange feeling. It's liberating. It's also one hell of a rush, Steve thinks, as he glances down and sees that Tony is even harder.

When he has the shirt unbuttoned, he pushes it back off Tony's shoulders and looks up. There's the slightest hint of trepidation in Tony's eyes, and Steve thinks he knows why. And one of the advantages of being able to talk about things is that he thinks that now, maybe, they can talk about this.

"Since I'm not actually checking your injuries," Steve says, very quietly, "I don't have to touch your chest if you don't want me to. Just say the word."

Tony smiles a small smile. "I want you to," he says. "I just-- with the scars-- I have a hard time believing that anyone would want to." He pauses. "But you look at me like you think I'm beautiful," he says, very softly, and then he shuts his eyes. "God, that sounds stupid, I don't know what I even--"

Steve kisses him.

The kiss is as gentle as he can make it, but when he finally pulls away, Tony is staring at him, wide-eyed and dazed.

"I think you're beautiful," Steve says. "And I want to kiss you everywhere."

Tony's laugh is breathless. "I'm sure not going to stop you."

Slowly, carefully, he bears Tony back down to the bed. Tony's bed is ridiculously huge, with plenty of room for both of them. Tony's head is propped up on the pillow. He's pretty sure Tony wants a good view.

He kisses Tony's collarbone. He kisses down Tony's chest, savoring Tony's moan as he licks one of Tony's nipples, and then he slides further down and keeps kissing. The old scars, the Sentient Armor's scars, are pale; they press, thick and inflexible, against his mouth. He doesn't know how much sensation Tony has there anymore, but Tony's breathing ratchets up, and when he glances up, Tony's eyes are wet with tears.

"Tony?"

"I'm good," Tony says, thickly. "I'm just-- emotional, okay, I'm sorry--"

He wonders who the hell told Tony it wasn't okay to have feelings, and why Tony believed them.

"You don't need to apologize," he says, as kindly as he can. "Do you want me to stop?"

Tony shakes his head. "No, please-- I want-- please don't stop--"

So Steve kisses Tony more, then dares to go lower, kissing Tony's ribs -- as lightly as he can with the bruising -- as Tony's moans get breathier and breathier. He kisses across Tony's stomach, still lower, and that's when Tony figures out that he's doing exactly what Tony was probably hoping he was going to be doing.

Tony hitches his hips upward before Steve gets a hand on him to check the motion.

"Hey, hey, hey," Steve murmurs. "None of that. Still. You promised, remember?"

"I know," Tony says. His voice is low and raspy in a much better way. "But I-- oh, God, Steve, don't tease me, I can't take it--"

"I won't," Steve says. Tony's waited a week; there's no way he's making Tony wait any longer.

He glances back down Tony's body, smooths his hand over Tony's hip, and then carefully unties the drawstring on Tony's pants -- not his nicest clothes, but he did just get home from the hospital -- and pushes his pants and boxers down just enough to be able to ease his cock out.

Tony's definitely hard now, so hard that Steve wonders if it's actually hurting him, and he's quivering with the effort to stay still as Steve wraps his hand around his cock and gives him a few experimental strokes. He's big, but not too big, a nice size, and Steve's looking forward to having a lot more fun with him at some point when Tony is not absolutely desperate to come.

"Steve," Tony says, brokenly. "Steve, please."

So Steve doesn't tease. He just opens his mouth, leans in, and takes Tony all the way down. He hears Tony gasping and swearing and saying his name, and he has both hands on Tony's hips, pinning him down to keep him from thrusting up. Steve backs off just a little, licking and sucking, bobbing his head, doing all the work so Tony doesn't have to. Tony's hands grip his hair like he can't stop himself and that's fine, that's definitely fine, that's so much better than fine.

He looks up along Tony's body and meets Tony's eyes and even though it can't have been more than a minute, Tony says, "I'm going to--"

Come fills Steve's mouth and he swallows and swallows, a little messily, but he doesn't think Tony will mind. Tony's eyes are shut, his expression radiant, even with the injury.

"Oh, that was nice," Tony says, his voice slurred with pleasure, his eyes still shut. "I swear I usually last longer. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Steve says. "Pretty sure I'm going to go off as soon as anyone touches me, honestly. It's been a long week."

Tony opens his eyes and pats the bed next to him, looking dismayed. "Jesus, Steve. Come up here. You didn't have to wait for me, you know."

"I said I was going to, and I did," Steve says, scooting up the bed. "I keep my word."

Tony smiles fondly. His cheeks are flushed. "Of course you do."

Then Tony unzips his fly and takes him in hand, and Steve can't think about anything but Tony's hand, and, oh, God, this is going to be quick.

Tony is, of course, a genius, and it takes him about ten seconds to figure out exactly how Steve likes it best, a twisting stroke around the shaft of his cock that goes lighter around the head, teasing him just a little. Ten more seconds and Steve's balls are tightening with the need to come, and he tries to think about something else, anything else, but then Tony smiles at him and that's it, Steve's coming in long spurts, all over Tony's bed and his own damn uniform, and he keeps coming and coming, gasping and trembling and finally sinking back into the bed.

Tony leans over and kisses him. "And that's why you don't deny yourself for a week, Captain Stubborn." He yawns. "Would you be terribly offended if I fell asleep on you right now?"

"Nope," Steve says. He's a little drowsy himself, floating in a blissful post-orgasmic haze. He loves Tony and Tony loves him and they're going to be okay. "Do I get to cuddle you?"

Tony yawns again. "Knock yourself out."

Steve promptly pulls Tony into his arms. "I'm going to get you up in two hours for the antibiotic, though, if you haven't set an alarm."

Tony's face scrunches up. "Do I have to?"

Steve considers saying _don't you want to?_ and _you know it's important_ , but then he figures out the perfect response. "I'll go down on you again."

He feels Tony's spent cock twitch against his hip as Tony moans, half-voiced. "That's bribery," Tony says. "I like it."

"Good," Steve says, but he's not sure Tony's awake to hear him.

A week ago he wasn't sure Tony was going to survive, but now he's here and he's safe and they're together. He has everything he wanted, he thinks, as he looks down at Tony, once again asleep in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/175939654359/fic-let-my-hands-do-the-soothing) you can like/reblog!


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